Parallel: Harry Potter
by Shadow Rebirth
Summary: A collection of story ideas. [Idea 1: The world had ended in flames. And then Lieutenant General Harry Potter, commander of the Magical Tactics Squad, woke up and found himself staring into the green eyes of a three year old Harry Potter. Time travel.]
1. No Rest for the Wicked

Title: Parallel: Harry Potter_ - __No Rest for the Wicked  
_Author: Shadow Rebirth  
Rating: T  
Chapter WC: 2,102  
Story WC: 2,102  
First Written: July 31, 2008  
Last Edited: November 15, 2008  
Posted: November 15, 2008  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This work has not been endorsed by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, Warner Bros., or any of the others holding copyright or license to the Harry Potter books, movies, and products. No connection is implied or should be inferred. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author receives no financial gain from its production or distribution.

Summary: The world had ended in flames. And then Lieutenant General Harry Potter, commander of the Magical Tactics Squad, woke up and found himself staring into the impossibly green eyes of a three year old Harry Potter. Time travel, no pairings.

**This is a collection of story ideas, not a chapter fic. Each chapter is a different story. **

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

Chapter 1  
_No Rest for the Wicked_

* * *

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who __favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice._

_-__Fire and Ice__ by Robert Frost_

The world had ended in flames.

It had been a long time coming, if Harry was entirely honest with himself. The Voldemort shit he'd been involved with as a kid had only been the tip of the iceberg. Though it took a while for anyone to realize it, the absolute _moron_ of a dark lord's attempts to take over the wizarding world had had an undesired effect: the muggle world had become aware of wizards. It was from there that things had gone to Hell.

It had started off slowly at first, mainly because many muggles had refused to believe that magic existed. Things would have been fine had everyone just let the matter lie, but then someone got their hands on some muggleborn wizards and everyone was given undeniable proof that wizards existed.

Like all humans, muggles feared what they could not understand. And they _definitely_ couldn't understand magic. In only a few days time the entire muggle world managed to work itself up into a frenzy. They declared that wizards were evil and unnatural. They decided that wizards had been trying to take over the world. They ruled that wizards had to be stopped—had to be killed.

It was the witch hunts of the Dark Ages all over again, only this time _worse._ The masses were crying for blood and even though the governments of the world knew the truth about wizards, they were only too ready to give the people what they wanted, if only to avoid persecution themselves. Muggles began hunting and killing anyone even remotely suspicious. They became terrified, panicky, and were quick to cut down anyone in their path.

It didn't take too long after this for the wizarding world to realize what was happening. Before long the terror began to build in their society and everyone began to try to hide.  
Unfortunately, terrified wizards are obvious wizards, and many, many people all over the world were caught.

Fortunately, not long after that the wizarding world managed to unite. People were angry and afraid and were just as ready to persecute muggles as muggles were ready to persecute them. Within a year the wizarding and muggle worlds were at war.

Before Harry had turned twenty five, all of the muggle British citizens had been evacuated. At first the magical government had thought that the muggles were been fleeing and they'd celebrated, sure of their victory. But then the muggles didn't something that no one had ever expected: They'd dropped nuclear bombs. And the wizards had found out in the worst way possible that while their shields and wards stopped muggles from finding them, it did nothing against fire and radiation.

Of course, the massive casualties only managed to anger the magical community further and soon witches and wizards were fighting back harder than ever. It had been a terrifying time to live, whether you were magical or non-magical. Magic made wizards powerful, technology made muggles powerful, and human emotions made both into killers.

It was an impasse that could only be resolved with death. And indeed, that's what had happened. Humans ended up destroying each other. In their terror, in their rage, they ended up tearing the world apart.

The world had ended in flames.

And then Lieutenant General Harry Potter, commander of the Magical Tactics Squad, woke up, staring at the door to the cupboard under the stairs.

* * *

Harry was a sweet little three-year-old. He always did what he was told, he was always polite, and he always stared with wide green eyes that just begged for his cheeks to be pinched. Not that his relatives noticed. Harry didn't care though; he was too young to notice. Too young to be anything but curious about the world.

And so when in the middle of one night Harry suddenly woke up, he found himself curious. He didn't know why he'd woken up, but he knew, somewhere deep down inside, that it was important. The young child stared curiously at the door to his room—which was in fact a cupboard under the stairs—his green eyes shining. He reached out and gripped the golden handle and pushed the door open.

The young Harry's great surprise, there was a man standing outside his bedroom. It wasn't his uncle, or even one of the neighbors. It wasn't someone he'd ever met before. And yet, the man felt incredibly familiar, as if he'd known him his whole life.

As Harry stared up at the man curiously and the man stared back with a shocked expression. He had dark hair and emerald green eyes, just like Harry, but he wore no glasses. His face was marred with lines and scars that aged him beyond his years. One particularly ragged scar ran down the entire right side of his face, standing out in stark contrast with his tanned skin.

The man's clothes reminded Harry of a movie he'd seen his uncle watching recently. His clothing was all black and made of thick material. What looked like a modified version of a bulletproof vest was over his shirt and that was covered by a long jacket that almost swept the floor. On the jacket, over his left breast, was a strange crest made up of a staff and a rifle crossing beneath a roaring griffin. Above the crest were three silver stars.

Young Harry cocked his head to the side curiously, still studying the strange man. He couldn't help it then: He smiled.

This seemed to break whatever had been holding the shocked man in place. He took a single step back. Then another. Instead of bumping into the wall behind him however, the man began to go straight through the wall, as if he wasn't corporeal. This shocked the man much more than the sight of the young child and he stared with disbelief for a moment before suddenly turning and running.

* * *

Harry Potter stared incredulously at the door to the cupboard under the stairs for several long moments. A quick glance around revealed that he was standing in the hallway in the Dursley's home.

But that wasn't possible.

Number Four Privet Drive had been destroyed with the rest of London during one of the first attacks on Great Britain nearly ten years ago. Harry had personally seen the wreckage of the home. There was no way that he could be here.

But then, there also wasn't a way for him to still be alive. Harry closed his eyes to fend off the painful memories. They'd lost. Not just the Magical World, but the _entire_ world. Humans had lost to themselves. To their anger, to their fear, to their jealousy.

Harry's eyes snapped open when the door to the small cupboard suddenly creaked open. He tensed on the balls of his feet, ready for anything; ready to fight or flee. Or at least he'd _thought_ he'd been ready for anything.

But nothing in the world, none of the horrors he'd been through, the atrocities he'd committed, could have prepared him for the sight of a pair of impossibly green eyes staring at him curiously from behind a pair of too-large glasses. Harry felt as though his breath had been frozen in his lungs. He couldn't breathe, didn't _dare_ breathe, lest the apparition before him suddenly disappear.

Almost against his will, Harry felt his eyes sliding up towards where a pale lightning bolt scar was cut into the child's forehead. It was impossible. It was completely and utterly impossible.

And yet it was there.

The young boy—_Harry Potter_, his mind whispered treacherously—tilted his head to the side slightly, staring at him curiously. Then he did something Harry never would have expected: He smiled.

As though a petrification curse on Harry had been broken, he suddenly found himself taking a shaky step backwards. His mind was racing a million miles an hour, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. He took a second step, but instead of meeting the wall of the hallway like he'd expected, his back met air. Surprise, Harry turned his head away to look at the wall—

—_Never take your eyes off the enemy!_

_B__ut he's just a child!_

_Harry flinches as a young muggle boy, enraged by the death of his parents, begins pounding on Harry's chest with his tiny fists. Tears of frustration and fear run down the child's face and he sobs, desperate, so desperate—_

—Only to find that half his body is sticking out of the wall, as if it's not really there. Harry stared in disbelief for several long moments before the reality of the entire situation finally overwhelmed him. He did the only thing he could then: He turned and ran. Ran from the childhood home that shouldn't have been standing, ran from the smiling little boy, ran from what couldn't, _shouldn't_, be.

He ran and he ran until he couldn't take it anymore. He collapsed then, but it wasn't from exhaustion—_Harry realized belatedly that his muscles weren't straining how they should have been, that his heart wasn't pumping, and that even if he held his breath for an eternity, he didn't need the air_—but rather sheer emotional pain. He found himself shaking uncontrollably in the middle of a street, paying no attention to the cars—_cars too old, he noticed; they looked nothing like the models he was used to_—that passed straight through him as though he wasn't even there.

That was about the sum of it. It was like he wasn't there. It was as though it was he, a warrior riddled with memories no one should have, was the one who didn't belong there. London, intact and bustling with life, was all around him, untouched by the War. He was out of place in world that shouldn't be there.

Harry felt like screaming at the top of his lungs. This was wrong. So very, very wrong. Nothing was as it should be, everything was _wrong_.

But no matter what Harry did, no one paid any attention him. It really was like he wasn't there. Like he was just some silent observer. Angrily he swung at a passing car, but his fist passed straight through. He pounded at the ground, but it didn't hurt. Even though he was sitting on the solid ground, it still felt like he was hitting air.

Harry knew that he doubtlessly looked like a madman to any observers. But there were no observers. No one took any notice of him. No one could see him. He was like a ghost.

He didn't know how much time he spent meandering the streets like a pale wraith. He felt as though his mind had broken and yet he was still the same. He just watched with hollow eyes as people went about their daily lives. Normalcy was something he hadn't witnessed in a long, long time.

At one point Harry found himself drifting through Diagon Alley—_miraculously untouched and filled with people who weren't used to the horrors of the War, who had never seen the Hunts or fought against technology that shouldn't have existed_—but still no one took any note of him. That ruled out the ghost theory then; wizards should have been able to see him even if muggles couldn't. Even other ghosts couldn't see him, apparently.

Harry felt more alone than he ever had before. He was separate from everyone and everything.

Except for one little boy.

Eventually Harry found himself drifting back to Privet Drive. He paid no mind to his relatives, who, incredibly were alive just like everyone else—_Dudley had smiled at him for the first time and wished him luck just before he'd left on Harry's eighteenth birthday, when the wards had come down. Harry had never heard from him again_—but instead stayed with the young child.

Too used to lectures about magic not existing even at his age, the three year old never mentioned the man that followed him around like a grim shadow to his relatives. In return Harry never left the boy, the only connection to life that he had left. He was always there no matter what, hovering over his shoulder and whispering encouraging words into his ear. Harry, both young and old, never smiled, but he found himself feeling something that he hadn't in a long time: Contented.

And at night, when the Dursleys were tucked in theirs bed, Harry would hold the young boy tightly and tell him stories of another world.

"Once upon a time there was a magical school called Hogwarts..."

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know, I'm only supposed to be working on Shades of Gray this month, but inspiration struck and I just couldn't help myself. This is an idea that I've been playing around with for a while now. I'd absolutely love to write a full out story with it, but at the time being I just don't have that time. Three epic-length stories are giving me enough to work on.

_No Rest for the Wicked_ would basically be about an older war-scarred Harry acting as an unseen guardian for young Harry. By the time young Harry goes to Hogwarts he'd already know just about everything about the Magical World and would have been taught a lot of magical theory, among other things. As I said before, it's an idea I'd love to expound upon one day.

On that note, any of the ideas in this collection are open to be used by anyone. Please just accredit it and let me know when you post it, because I'd certainly be interested in reading the story.

-S.R.


	2. Fractured Soul

Title: Parallel: Harry Potter - Fractured Soul  
Author: Shadow Rebirth  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 896  
Story WC: 2,998  
First Written: November 15, 2008  
Last Edited: November 16, 2008  
Posted: November 16, 2008  
Summary: The darkness whispers into Harry's mind and as he struggles to figure out whether he's Harry Potter or Tom Riddle, he's no longer so sure that it's a bad thing. Dark!Harry.

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Parallel: Harry Potter

Chapter 2  
_Fractured Soul_

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Darkness. It was smothering (_It was so comforting_). It wrapped around him like chains (_like a warm cocoon_), whispering things into his ear that were so revolting (_so tempting_). He wanted desperately to get out (_to stay forever_) of its constricting embrace—

(_Secure_)

It burned

(_It was home_)

Tainting him

(_He wanted to—_)

He had to—

Harry Potter's eyes abruptly snapped open. With a sharp gasp he jerked upwards in bed, his head whipping around, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. A massive headache was pounding inside his head, like a basilisk bursting to free itself.

"Mr. Potter!" the familiar voice of Madame Pomfrey barked. (_Where was Madame Bernharst?_) The school matron came bustling in with a tray of potions. "Lay back down; you're still healing."

Hesitantly, Harry followed her instructions. "What happened?" he rasped.

Madame Pomfrey frowned. "You were found unconscious," she told him. "You had magical exhaustion; you've been sleeping for three days now."

Harry's eyes widened in surprised. Magical exhaustion?! (_Foolish_) "What happened?"

Pomfrey opened her mouth to reply, but before she could the door to the hospital wing suddenly opened, admitting Headmaster Dumbledore. Pomfrey bowed her head politely, murmured some sort of a greeting, and then quickly bustled back into her office. Dumbledore smiled indulgently before focusing all of his attention on Harry.

"How are you feeling, my boy?" Dumbledore asked as he took a seat next to Harry's bed.

"Tired," Harry muttered. (_Weak_) "What happened?"

Dumbledore paused, staring at Harry with concern, as if expecting him to collapse again suddenly. "You collapsed after leaving my office," he said finally. "Fortunately I found you only a few minutes later. It would seem that though Fawkes saved you from the basilisk's venom down in the Chamber, your body and magic is still weak."

With a jolt, Harry suddenly remembered the Chamber of Secrets and his fight with the gigantic basilisk. He lifted his arms from under the covers, staring at the angry red scar on his skin where the snake's fang had pierced his arm. (_But why would she try to hurt me?_)

"Is Ginny alright?" Harry asked absentmindedly.

He didn't listen to Dumbledore's reply, finding that he didn't care. He felt as though his emotions had been muffled, as though there was a thick wall between him and them. He shook his head to clear the sensation and Dumbledore continued to peer at him worriedly.

"Stay here until Madame Pomfrey releases you," Dumbledore said. "You need to rest."

Harry never noticed when the headmaster left. His pounding headache had increased to epic proportions and he found that he couldn't think straight. He was becoming increasingly confused.

He took a deep breath and decided to try to get his head straight. He started with the obvious. Who was he? Harry Potter. (_No_) No, that wasn't right. It was...Riddle? Tom Riddle? No, that wasn't right either. Harry gripped his head tightly between his hands, panic starting to build up within him. What was going on?

Memories in Harry's head began clashing against each other as he desperately tried to sort everything out. He could remember a silver haired Headmaster Dumbledore just as easily as he could remember a red haired Dumbledore teaching Transfiguration. He could remember sleeping in the Gryffindor Tower just as easily as he could remember lounging in front of a fire in the Slytherin dungeons.

But what was right and what was wrong? He was Harry Potter, right? (_No_) The Boy-Who-Lived? (_No?_) Then who was he? Which set of memories was the right one?

For most of the next day Harry didn't talk except when he was asked a question. Sometime after dinner a student, Ron Weasley (_His friend?_) stopped by to see how he was. He took Harry's attitude as a result of his exhaustion and left soon after. Harry didn't bother to correct him.

Two days later Harry was finally released from the hospital wing. He wandered along the halls of the castles for a few hours, his thoughts still muddled. He was hesitant about whether he should go to the Slytherin or Gryffindor common room (_Ron would be waiting for him_) so for the time being he decided on neither.

Harry passed through the Entrance Hall before beginning to climb up the stairs. He was tempted to go outside for a little while, but he had appearances as a Prefect to keep up (_When had he become a Prefect? Wasn't he still just a second year?_) so instead he headed to the sixth floor. He followed his feet without really thinking about what he was doing.

Before long he reached an empty expanse of wall and began to pace back and forth in front of it. (_What was he doing?_) After passing by it for the third time a door popped into existence. Inside he found a massive room filled with junk for as far as the eye could see. He'd been there many times before (_He had? When?_) so he easily navigated threw the piles of junk to the back were a large cabinet was sitting. On top of that cabinet was a silver diadem.

_Mine_, his mind whispered. (_But he'd never seen it before_) With shaking hands he reached out and picked it up. Instantly a wave of darkness washed over him, warming his soul.

(_So cold_)

Security.

(_Tainting_)

Home.

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A/N: Wow, I didn't expect to finish another so soon, but what works, works I guess. Thanks for all the feedback for the last chapter!

This is another idea that I've been toying with for quite a while. The basic premise is that when Harry destroyed Voldemort's diary Horcrux, the sixteen year old piece of Riddle's soul merged with Harry's. It would turn into a Dark!Harry story, with Harry being a mix of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, but beyond that I haven't put much thought into it.

Please review!

--S.R.


	3. Return of the Savior

Title: Return of the Savior  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 861  
Story WC: 3,859  
First Written: November 15, 2008  
Last Edited: November 26, 2008  
Posted: November 26, 2008

Summary: After his godfather's death Harry abandoned the wizarding world and fled to America. Six years later his world is once again ripped apart.

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

Chapter 3  
_Return of the Savior_

* * *

_"We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."_

_–Charles Bukowski_

Harry Potter smiled. He was content as he'd ever been, and hopefully it would stay that way. The twenty two year old man—and ex-wizard, but no one knew about that anymore—took another sip of his drink, laughing readily as his two friends sitting across from him joked around.

This life-style, for lack of a better term, had started six years ago, at the end of his fifth year of Hogwarts. It seemed like a lifetime ago already and in a way it was.

After his godfather's death and being told about the prophecy, Harry had snapped. Literally. A part of it might have been because of teenage hormones, but Harry wasn't complaining. He'd decided that he'd had enough of the wizarding world. He'd had enough of their shit and enough of them piling their problems on top of him.

That summer, Harry left the wizarding world for good. Some might say—and indeed, had said—that he was deserting them, but he was beyond caring. He was content to let them rot for their sins.

Leaving his past life behind, Harry had fled to America. Once there it hadn't been too difficult to acquire some anti-tacking wards and then disappear into the muggle world. Though he'd never managed to get himself to throw his wand away, he hadn't used it since he'd left.

Since then his life had improved drastically. Under an assumed name he'd gone back to school and had eventually even gotten a degree from college. He was now living in New York City, sharing an apartment with his two closest friends. They knew nothing of the wizarding world and had never heard of Harry Potter, and that was exactly how he wanted to keep it.

Sometimes Harry would get the urge to write to his old friends, just to see how they were doing. But he didn't, because he knew that he couldn't take the chance that he might be found. He just wasn't willing to risk it. He even went to the point that he completely blocked himself from the magical world and its news, just to make sure that he wouldn't be tempted. Voldemort had surely been taken out by now anyway.

Unfortunately, Fate had always liked Harry far too much and had never released her claws from around his throat, no matter how far he ran away. But Harry didn't know this.

As such, Harry was just as shocked as everyone else when the block around the small café in was in suddenly began shaking as if a bomb had been dropped. He and his friends ran out of the building with everyone else, wondering what the hell was going on. The very second they stepped outside however, Harry froze in shock.

Death Eaters.

They were shooting spells everywhere, right in the middle of the street. Harry flinched when harsh screams tore through the air as a Cruciatus Curse struck someone. People began panicking and pushing into each other as they all tried to get away.

It was chaos.

And in the middle of it all stood Voldemort, cackling as insanely as ever. He looked exactly the same as the last time Harry had seen him in the Ministry of Magic in London. Dark robes swirled around him, making him look like exactly what he was: A Dark Lord.

Harry would never be sure what happened in the next few minutes. Once he'd been sure that Voldemort wasn't after him, but just there to cause panic, he ran like everyone else, desperate to get away. It wasn't as though he could defend himself if he wanted to anyway; his wand was tucked safely away back in his apartment.

Then Harry something that he would never forget, or forgive: The bodies of his two friends lying in the street. Their eyes were open and glassy and their faces contorted with pain and fear. They had not been killed with the Killing Curse, but instead with various dark, painful spells.

Harry froze in his tracks, unable to take his eyes away from the sight before him. In just a few chaotic seconds, his happy little life had been ripped away from him. He'd run from England to escape Voldemort, to escape the wizarding world, but in the end it'd all been for naught. Voldemort had wound up winning anyway.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if he'd been deluding himself the whole time. If he'd unconsciously known that he'd never been able to get away from his fate, but had wanted to think that he could anyway. He'd heard many times that running away never solved anything, but he was only now beginning to realize how true that was.

As the telltale cracks of Apparation sliced through the air, Harry began to back away. The American wizards would no doubt wipe the memories of all the muggles in the area. The dark haired man narrowed his eyes on Voldemort's laughing face once more before finally slipping away.

Fine. If Voldemort wanted a war, he'd get one. Harry had nothing left here now. It might be six years late, but he was finally ready.

He would return.

* * *

A/N: The idea for this story should be pretty obvious. Basically Harry ignored the wizarding world for so long that he didn't know that Voldemort had already taken control of most of Europe and was moving on to the Americas. A large part of the story would be about Harry's internal struggle with returning to his old life and how he'd deal with the people who feel like he "betrayed" them by leaving.

There's also a small chance that the story could be a crossover with Supernatural, but I'd have to tweak some things in the plot for that to work.

—S.R.


	4. Broken Reflection

Title: Broken Reflection  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 3,173  
Story WC: 7,032  
First Written: November 26, 2008  
Last Edited: December 2, 2008  
Posted: December 2, 2008

Summary: The reflection of a young boy shatters, sending shards of what is and what could be flying in every direction. Will Harry ever be able to break the time loop or will he be stuck in endless repetition for all of eternity?

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

Chapter 4  
_Broken Reflection_

* * *

_"Insanity is repeating the same thing over and over but expecting a different result every time."_

—_Einstein_

Harry was beyond terrified. At this point, liquid fear was coursing through his veins, attempting to burn its way out. He wasn't sure what was happening anymore, just that he needed to get _away_—

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain—his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off—the pain in Harry's head was building—he couldn't see—he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's own head, crying, "Harry! Harry!"

He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and fell into blackness, down...down...down...

* * *

Harry jolted awake as though he'd been electrified. Gasping for breath, he desperately looked around. Quirrell! Where was he? And Voldemort!

It took Harry a moment to realize that he was sitting up in his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor Tower. As his rapidly beating heart began to slow, his panic changed to confusion. How had he gotten here? What had happened?

Harry jumped when a loud snort suddenly came from the bed next to him. The person shifted beneath the covers, muttering under their breath, and Harry soon caught sight of vibrant red Harry peeking out.

"Ron!" Harry yelled.

The boy yelped, startled into wakefulness, and the other three boys were jerked awake as well. Harry didn't even notice as he scrambled out of bed and raced over to his friend.

"Ron! Ron! Are you alright? Is your head okay? Did Hermione find you? Did you talk to Dumbledore?"

"What the hell Harry?" Ron groaned. "What are you talking about?"

"The Stone! The chess match! You didn't get a concussion, did you?"

Now Ron—as well as Neville, Seamus, and Dean—were staring at him as if he was insane. "Seriously, mate, what're you going on about?" he asked. "How could a _chess match_ give me a bloody concussion?"

Harry stared at him. His hands fell limply to his sides as he realized that Ron really had no idea what he was talking about. He didn't remember.

Ron snorted and rolled back over in his bed. "It was just a bad dream, Harry. Go back to bed and let me sleep some more; we've got our last exam in just a few hours."

"Yeah, a dream," Harry echoed faintly. Like a zombie, he slipped back into his bed and covered his head with the blankets.

But it'd felt so real! The trials, Quirrell, Voldemort, the Stone...

But maybe that was it, his mind reasoned. Really, Voldemort living in the back of someone's head, let alone _Quirrell's_? Exam stress must be getting to him. Yeah, that must be it.

But the nagging feeling that something was wrong didn't go away as he slipped back into an uneasy sleep. As the morning came and he headed down with his friends to take their History of Magic exam, it only grew stronger and stronger.

Everything was the same, he realized. The same as in his "dream". Even some of the conversations were the same! How could he have imagined this? His alarm reached its peak when the questions on the History exam were exactly the same.

Harry stared at the paper before him with dull shock, unable to believe what was happening. It was like he was reliving the past day. But, that wasn't possible, right?

When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry barely even noticed that he'd never filled out a single question.

"That was far easier than I though it would be," said Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. Harry allowed himself to be pulled along, but he didn't really see anything around him. "I needn't have learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager."

"No more studying," Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. "You could look more cheerful, Harry; we've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet."

Harry didn't reply.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione said hesitantly. "You've been acting strange all day."

Ron snorted. "Strange barely covers it," he commented. "Harry woke us up in the middle of the night, yelling something about chess matches. Bloody mental, I tell you."

"Language, Ron," Hermione said offhandedly. She was staring at Harry with concern clear in her face. "Harry, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Harry muttered. "It's just..." What if all of this was real? What if everything he'd gone through to get the stone wasn't a dream, but reality? It seemed impossible, but...What if?

Abruptly, Harry leapt up and began running towards the castle. "I need to speak to Dumbledore!" he called over his shoulder. In his wake, his two friends exchanged bewildered glances.

Almost as soon as he reached the entrance hall, Harry caught sight of Professor McGonagall carry a stack of books. Remembering the day before—if it could be called that—Harry felt dread well up in his stomach like cold ice. Daring to hope despite this, he hurried over to the professor.

"Professor McGonagall, can I speak to Dumbledore?" he asked quickly.

McGonagall gave him a startled glance. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but Professor Dumbledore left five minutes ago. He received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and flew off to London at once."

Harry's shoulders slumped and he nodded dejectedly. "Thanks, Professor," he said without really meaning it. McGonagall watched with a frown as the first year slowly wandered further into the castle.

Later that night Harry lay awake, staring up at the top of his four-poster bed. Today had been, without a doubt, the strangest day of his life. He felt strange, having not gone after the Stone, but...It just didn't feel right to go there again. And if everything he remembered actually was real then the Mirror of Erised should stop Voldemort from getting the Stone anyway.

It was already in the early hours of the morning before Harry drifted off into a troubled sleep.

* * *

The next morning Harry blearily went about his morning routine to get ready for that day. He'd decided not to even think about the day before, even though it'd been the weirdest day of his life. It was only when Ron began to dress in his school uniform that Harry felt that something was wrong.

"Er, Ron, we have off today," Harry pointed out. "Yesterday was our last exam."

Ron paused with his tie in hand to stare at Harry. "What are you talking about? We still have our history exam, mate. I want the exam to be over just as badly as you do though..."

Oh _hell_ no.

Harry froze, staring at his redheaded friend in shock. No, no, no! That couldn't be true! It couldn't be June 4th _again_. Not for the _third_ time.

Without waiting to explain anything, Harry suddenly tore from the dorm room and raced out of the Gryffindor common room. He was uncaring of the people he knocked over and indeed didn't even hear their indignant shouts. Harry's mind was focused solely on getting to his destination: Dumbledore's office.

Harry was already halfway to the entrance hall before he realized that he still didn't know where the Headmaster's office was. Desperate and on the verge of panic, the young wizard cast around for a professor—_any_ professor.

It was just his luck that the first person Harry ran into was Snape, heading towards the Great Hall for breakfast. At this point, however, he was beyond caring.

"Professor Snape! Professor Snape!" he hollered as he skidded to a stop next to the older man.

Snape stared down at the child, caught between surprise and annoyance. Before he could even open his mouth, Harry began blathering on about only Merlin knew what.

"Potter! _Potter_," Snape snapped. "What _are_ you going on about?"

"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore," Harry blurted out. He was taking in deep gulps of air, both because of his run and his panic. "Please, sir!"

Snape would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was beginning to get a little worried. The boy was literally on the verge of hyperventilating! He studied the child before him with a sharp eye for a moment, wondering if this was some sort of trick. The hysteria in the boy's eyes could not be faked, however, and that was what decided it for him.

"Come, Potter," the potions master sneered. He turned on his heel and began to lead the first year back through the halls.

Behind him, Harry released a deeply relieved sigh. He'd been so afraid that Snape would just ignore him like he usually did. The boy hurried to keep up with the older wizard's long strides, half jogging until they suddenly stopped in front of a large stone gargoyle.

Harry watched on, curious even through his hysteria, as Snape barked out the name of some inane wizarding candy. Instantly, the gargoyle burst to life and stepped aside. The wall behind it split in two then, revealing a spiral staircase.

Snape stepped onto the staircase, motioning for a gaping Harry to follow. He did so and found to his further surprise that he staircase began moving upwards. As it did so, the wall behind them slowly closed back up.

The staircase led up to a polished oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin. Snape knocked soundly with the knocker and a moment later a muffled reply came through the thick wood. Snape opened the door and motioned for Harry to go on through with a sneer.

The door opened into a large, beautiful circular room lined with windows. The walls of the office were covered with the portraits. There were also numerous bookshelves holding old tomes and various odd instruments. Harry noticed none of this. His eyes were solely on the headmaster, who was seated behind an enormous, claw-footed desk. Dumbledore was smiling benignly at him, a twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore greeted jovially. "Have a seat. How are you?"

Gulping slightly from intimidation, Harry eased down into the puffy seat in front of Dumbledore's desk. He glanced back at the office's door, but found that Snape had already left. Harry could faintly hear the grinding of stone as the staircase moved downwards.

"Er, thank you, Professor," Harry stuttered. "I— I'm, fine, but..." He gulped again. This was going to sound insane, he knew it. He was starting to question the wisdom of coming here at all, but...It was too late to turn back now. "I think I'm reliving this day over and over."

Whatever the headmaster had been expecting, it wasn't that. He blinked several times, taken aback.

"...Reliving this day?" he repeated.

Harry nodded shyly. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and then everything just seemed to pour out. He talked and talked, telling Dumbledore about everything, from Snape, to Quirrell, to Voldemort. By the time he was done he slumped into his chair, emotionally spent.

Dumbledore was leaning on his desk, hands folded beneath his chin as he listened to the boy's story. His face was unusually solemn and the ever-present twinkle had faded from his eyes. Even after Harry finished, he continued to stare into space, contemplating the words that had been left to hover in the air with an almost palpable weight.

It had quickly become apparent to Dumbledore that Harry was telling the truth. Not only was the hysteria in his voice and motions very real, and there no reason for him to be lying anyway, but there was just no way for him to possibly know everything that he did. The headmaster momentarily considered that these events could have happened _yesterday_, June 3rd, but the wards hadn't been tripped so he knew that that wasn't it.

Finally Dumbledore released a heavy sigh. "I'm glad you came to me, my boy," he began. "This is very important. I have never heard of a time loop happening like this before, but then, we as humans will never know all that magic is capable of." He sighed again. "I will make sure that the Stone is taken care of and Quirrell stopped. You don't have to go to your History of Magic exam; you clearly need to rest. Plus, there isn't much a reason for you to repeat a test you've already taken, hmm?"

Harry chuckled weakly, but his heart wasn't in it. Exhausted even though he'd just gotten up, the boy slowly wandered out of the Dumbledore's office. He eventually made his way outside and he spent the rest of the day staring up at the clouds as they drifted by, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

That night, Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

The next morning Harry was awoken by Ron shaking his shoulder. "Come on mate!" the redhead said as Harry groaned in annoyance. "You've gotta get up now or you'll miss breakfast. And there's no way in hell you'd want to take the History of Magic exam on an empty stomach."

Harry jackknifed up in bed. He stared at Ron with abject horror, wishing desperately for this to be some nightmare. When it became apparent that no rabid purple bunnies were going to jump out to torment him from the depths of his imagination, he fell back into bed with a whimper.

Late that morning, Harry went to Dumbledore again, with much the same results—minus his encounter with Snape. As he lay outside however, he was restless. He was repeating the day again. Something was obliviously wrong. What if...What if he was stuck repeating the fourth of June forever? What there was no way to get out of this time loop?

As panic began to grip him once more, Harry shoved those thoughts away. No, he thought firmly. There _had_ to be a way out. Perhaps...Perhaps he just had to stop Voldemort?

Harry leapt to his feet then, determined. Fine. If he had to, he would stop Quirrell and Voldemort. Again.

* * *

Harry waited until the next night snuck out of Gryffindor Tower underneath his invisibility cloak. He hadn't told Dumbledore about the time loop that day, which meant that everything should proceed normally. He'd considered bringing Ron and Hermione along again, but, upon remembering how they'd been hurt by helping him, he decided against it.

Sneaking down to the forbidden third floor corridor was even easier when he was alone. Upon reaching the door that led to Fluffy's room, he pulled out the flute that Hagrid had given him for Christmas. Even as he opened the door he began playing on it with halting notes. Slowly the cerberus' eyes began to droop and before long it fell to its knees, then slumped to the ground, fast asleep.

Harry continued playing as he made his way over toward the trapdoor. His heart was pounding in his chest and he was only just beginning to realize how much strength he'd drawn from his friends' presence.

Then he halted abruptly in front of the trapdoor, realizing that he couldn't pull it open while still playing. He considered the situation for a moment before abruptly dropping the flute. Even as Fluffy's growls started up again, he reached down and jerked the trapdoor open and then dropped down inside.

As soon as he'd regained his bearings, Harry leapt up and dashed away from the devil's snare he'd landed in. One of the plant's tendrils managed the wrap around his ankle, but he tore it off with a curse and promised himself that, once this was all over, he'd learn the fire spell that Hermione had used on it before.

Harry easily found the flying key that he needed, now that he knew what he was looking for. Once he'd jammed it into the lock and stepped into the next room however, dread suddenly settled into the bottom of his stomach.

As he stared out across the giant chessboard, Harry realized belatedly that he was no chess master like Ron. There was no way that he could win. Regardless, Harry attempted to play his way across the board as best as he could.

One hour later he woke up back in his dorm room with a killer headache.

* * *

It took Harry countless more repeats before he managed to finally beat the giant chess game. And when he finally did he let out a loud whoop of joy. He'd long since grown sick and tired of getting knocked out by giant stone men.

Harry proceeded through the next room with confidence only slightly dampened by the smell seeping from the knocked out troll. Then he saw all of the potions lined up in the next room and realized that he didn't remember which of the bottles contained the potion he should drink.

He went through two of the wines and a few pain filled minutes with poison in his system in the following repeats before he finally figured out which potion was which.

When Harry staggered into the final chamber on that last day, it was with great relief. He'd never have thought he'd actually be _glad_ to see Quirrell, but now, staring at the man's smirking face, he was.

"Potter," Quirrell said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here—"

"Save it," Harry snapped. He realized that he was acting uncharacteristically aggressive, but after over a week of living the same frustrating day over and over, he was beyond caring.

Harry stalked past as startled Quirrell and up to the Mirror of Erised. He glared at his reflection, daring it to _not_ give him the Stone like last time, but it only smiled and reached pulled a red stone out of its pocket, just like before. When Harry felt the reassuring weight of the Stone drop into his pocket again, he released a deep breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding.

A movement in the reflection alerted Harry that Quirrell was approaching. He spun around to face the professor just time to see a red spell collide with his chest. He stared in shock at Quirrell's triumphant sneer as the world faded into black.

Then he woke up in his bed in the Gryffindor Tower. Like almost every morning, it took a moment for the memories of the past day to assimilate but before long he could clearly remember the situation he was in. The situation he was still in.

Harry covered his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

A/N: This is another idea I've had rolling around in my head for a while. I've always been fascinated by time loop stories and I think that one with Harry as just a relatively ignorant first year could be really interesting, depending on where it's taken. I was originally going to have Harry fight a bit with Harry in the end there, but it'd be too unrealistic for a fully trained wizard not to immediately take out a distracted first year who doesn't even know what a stunner is. I would hate to be in Harry's position though; as interesting as time loops are, I can't even begin to imagine just how frustrating it would be.

...And I just realized how long this chapter is compared to all the rest. (shrugs) Meh, I couldn't get this done in anything less than this many pages. The story line just has too many details, many of which weren't even included in here.

Please review!

—S.R.


	5. Reminiscence

Title: Reminiscence  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 8,453  
Story WC: 15,485  
First Written: September 22, 2010  
Last Edited: May 16, 2011  
Posted: March 20, 2011

Summary: They said the memory loss was only a temporary side effect of the magically-induced sleep. They didn't say anything about the other memories that were surfacing, the ones that told of a different time and place where the war was already over, and Voldemort dead by his hand. [AU, no pairings.]

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

Chapter 5  
_Reminiscence_

* * *

_"Truth is arrived at by the painstaking process of eliminating the untrue. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."_

_–Sherlock Holmes_

When he awoke it was pitch black.

He shivered. He was lying on a bed with a thin sheet covering him. As he sat up it pooled around his waist, leaving his bandaged torso exposed to the cold night air. There was a white curtain set up around the bed, blocking his view from the rest of the room. He shivered again. Where was he? How had he gotten here?

He pulled lightly at the bandages wrapped around his chest, but found only unmarked skin beneath. He frowned and rolled his shoulders, feeling no pain, no ache. Leaving the bandages alone, he swung his legs off the bed so that he was sitting on the edge and tried to remember how he had gotten there. His frown deepened. He couldn't remember what had happened—

His eyes widened abruptly. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember _anything_. Not what had happened, not where he was, not _who he was_. The shiver that ran across his skin this time was from a very different source.

A swift hand pulled the curtains in front of Harry. Before he even realized what he was doing, he'd rolled across the bed and was crouching behind it. He stilled from sheer surprise at his own actions, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at the woman who'd approached him. She looked more shocked than him, if that was even possible.

An instant passed before the woman straightened, a scolding expression coming onto her face. "Mr. Potter!" she said sharply. "What _are_ you doing? You shouldn't be out of bed, especially at this time of the night."

He found himself muttering an apology automatically. He frowned at the action, but didn't move from where he was crouched. He glanced down at his hand a noticed his wand was gripped tightly there, instead of on the bedside table. His frown deepened. Wand?

He looked up at the woman, relaxing and finally allowing his confusion to show.

"Who are you?"

The woman's stern look melted away into concern. "Mr. Potter?"

Potter. She kept on saying that. His name? Yeah, Potter. Harry Potter.

"Harry Potter," he murmured aloud. He repeated it again, satisfied that it sounded familiar

"Oh dear." He looked up sharply. The woman's hand was covering her mouth, but it wasn't enough to hide the faint grimace on her face. "Mr. Potter, do you know where you are?" she asked carefully.

He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. The woman sighed, her hand dropping to her side. She pulled the curtains back further and gestured for him to sit on the bed. Still cautious, he did so.

"Don't be afraid," she said reassuringly. "Temporary memory loss is known side effect of magically-induced sleep. It's quite rare, but not unheard of." She drew her wand, summoning a pitcher. After pouring a cup of water and handing it to him, she sat down in the chair next to the bed with a sigh. "Your name is Harry Potter, as you seem to be aware. I am Madame Pomfrey, the resident Healer, and you're in the hospital wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

He took a slow sip of the water, using the cup to mask his increasing confusion. Somehow it felt like he should be surprised by the mention of magic, even though he wasn't. He gripped his wand tighter.

"I see. And why am I here?" The bandages went unmentioned.

Madame Pomfrey hesitated. "...Your memories will return in bits and pieces over the next few days," she said instead. "I'll warn you though—there's a chance that it will take weeks. I'm sure you'll be fine though; you've always been astonishingly resilient."

Saying nothing, he stared down into the metal cup. He could see a scratch on the bottom through the water. He swished the water around, willing for the mark to disappear, but it didn't.

"Well at least try to sleep, Mr. Potter. Professor Dumbledore will stop by in the morning," the Healer said. He still didn't reply and he didn't look up as she pulled the curtains close and bustled off.

Only once a still silence had settled over the hospital wing did he tear his gaze from the cup and let his head fall back against the headboard with a soft sigh. "Harry Potter," he murmured again. "I am...Harry Potter."

* * *

Harry could hear soft voices murmuring from the far corner of the hospital wing. He sat tense in his bed, eyes blood shot from lack of sleep. It was hard to rest, to close your eyes and fall into such a vulnerable state, when you were in unfamiliar territory. He was still gripping his wand, unwilling to let it go. If things got dangerous, then he'd need it to make a quick getaway.

He wondered why he was such a paranoid person.

The voices were getting louder now, and making their way towards him. The woman was saying something about heart monitoring charms waking her while a man "hmm"-ed along. They stopped before his bed and Harry tensed, waiting. He was not kept in suspense for long; a moment later Madame Pomfrey peered around the curtain.

"Mr. Potter?" she said when she saw that he was already awake. "Professor Dumbledore is here to speak with you."

Harry stared up at Dumbledore as Madame Pomfrey pulled the curtain all the way back, before moving off to take care of something else. There was something sharp in the man's eyes that set Harry's teeth on edge and made him pull his wand closer to his side. But there was also undeniable warmth there, along with sincere concern.

"I hear you're having a few memory troubles, my boy," Dumbledore said with surprising cheer. "I'm afraid that's one of the risks of dreamless sleep potions. Not to worry though; I'm sure you'll be all sorted out in due time."

Titling his head to the side, Harry refused to break eye contact. "So you won't tell me why I'm here either?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "I could do that, but I fear that my words would twist your perception of the events. You will remember soon enough on your own regardless. And I'm quite sure that you have more to tell me about it than I have to tell you!" His eyes continued twinkling, but his smile fell a bit. "Perhaps it is for the best that your memories have...delayed. Witnessing Voldemort's return must have put quite a bit of stress on your mind."

"Voldemort..." Harry frowned at the name. It evoked no emotions within him, although from the sad look on Dumbledore's face, it should have. He wondered if this "Voldemort" was the cause of his stay in the infirmary. He sighed after a moment and banished the thought. "So what am I supposed to do until my memory supposedly returns? Just sit here?"

Chuckling, Dumbledore shook his head. "The end of the year is upon us. You will be returning home in just a few days," he said.

At that moment, the doors to the hospital wing burst open and two children hurried inside. Although Harry tensed, Dumbledore just laughed again, smiling as the two quickly approached.

"Harry, mate!" the boy greeted with a wide grin. "Has Madame Pomfrey released you yet?"

The girl smacked the redhead on the arm. "Honestly Ron! He just woke up!" she scolded him. "Sorry, Harry, we know you've only been in the hospital wing for two days, but since Sirius already left..."

Harry stared blankly at them. His gaze shifted to Dumbledore, while the two children traded confused looks.

Dumbledore coughed. "Ah, forgive me. Harry, this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, your two best friends," he said. He glanced at the children. "I am afraid that Harry has suffered a memory mishap as a side effect of the dreamless sleep potion. It will wear off over the coming week, but until then you will have to help him out." The elder man stood, his bright robes sweeping around him. He nodded at them, smiling, before taking his leave.

The children were left staring at Harry. The girl looked faintly curious, he noticed, but the boy looked absolutely horrified.

"Blimey, mate!" Ron whispered. "That's—"

They fell into any uneasy silence. Harry stared at them, curious as to their unsettled reaction. "So," he said after a moment, "Friends?"

_A pale haired teenage girl laughed, her arm linked around his. She pointed to something in the distance and began say—_

The girl offered him a smile. "Yes, we have known each other since our first year," she agreed.

Harry frowned. "How did we meet though? You seem a fair bit younger than me."

The smile was instantly wiped away and replaced with a concerned look. The boy just laughed. "Wow, that potion must have really done a number on you!" he said. "See? This is why you never trust potions. Just how old do you think you are?"

The girl rolled her eyes at his words, but Harry's confusion didn't lift. "I..." He paused. "I don't know." He looked away, focusing on the sheets bunched up beneath his tense grip.

"See?" The boy grinned. "You're the same age as us. Harry James Potter, born July 31st, 1980." He glanced at the girl. "This won't be so hard!"

Sighing, the girl gave Harry an apologetic smile. "Would you like to go get some food?" she asked, and then promptly blushed. "Oh! Well, considering the circumstances, I suppose that's not the best proposal. Would you prefer if we went and got something for you instead? Term has already ended, so we can spend our time here."

"Unless Madam Pomfrey kicks us out," the boy snorted.

"We can answer whatever questions you may have," Hermione continued. "Would you like for us to bring your anything?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She gave him a smile, and he found himself smiling back. Ron was grinning ear to ear next to them and rocking back and forth on his heels. And for a moment, Harry could really feel the friendship he was supposed to have with them.

The moment they left, the smile dropped.

* * *

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger him. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. But what he found the most odd was that his friends took it as a matter of course, as though they were used to dealing with such actions. He found it almost as odd that he didn't mind the stares either. He ignored them with due ease, entirely unmindful of their actions.

The castle was familiar, at least. He could remember its halls now. He could remember the moving stairs and the dancing suits of armor and the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor. He could remember taking classes and running down the halls at midnight and laying by the lake on sunny days. But the people were still fuzzy, and specific memories were even worse. It was coming back in bits and pieces, like fragments of notes. But it was happening slowly—much too slowly.

"My mom asked Dumbledore if you could come straight to us this summer," Ron said at one point. "But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at least at first."

"The Dursleys?"

"Your relatives."

Harry frowned. His relatives? The Dursleys? The name sounded...odd...to him, for a reason he couldn't place.

_Red hair flashed before his vision, tickling his face. "Mum!" he whined. She laughed as he lifted his hands up to push it away, fingertips grazing against a half-hidden wand._

"I live with them?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably at the pure sensation of _wrongness_. "Not my parents?"

Ron gave him an odd look. "Er, sorry, Harry. Your parents...died...when you were a baby."

"...Huh. Who'd have thought."

"Harry!" Hermione said as she came down the stairs from the boy's dormitory. "I just finished packing your trunk, to make sure that you don't miss anything. Do you have anything else that's not in your room?"

Harry stared at her. She'd...gone through his things? Her? A complete stranger? He felt tense at the very thought.

Hermione tapped her fingers against her thigh impatiently. "Nothing? Are you sure you didn't leave any books out? Well—I suppose you wouldn't remember that, but you _have_ been reading more than usual over the past few days. No matter! Ron and I will take a last look around, won't we?" Ron opened his mouth to interrupt, but she just continued on, oblivious. "Dumbledore says you'll have to stay with your relatives at first, in case you didn't know. Oh Harry, I wish you didn't have to go back there. You must come to the Burrow as soon as you can."

"Right," Harry said awkwardly, feeling overwhelmed by her straight forward attitude. "Is there anything I should know about them?"

Hermione pulled up short, blinking in surprise. She and Ron briefly exchanged glances. "Well..." she said slowly, "They don't like magic much."

Ron snorted. "_Hate_ it is more like it. Especially after what the twins did when we picked you up last summer," he said.

Giving him a curious glance, Harry inquired, "The twins?"

"My brothers, remember?" Ron replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "They like to prank people—never trust them."

"...I'll try to keep that in mind."

"Oh don't mind him, Harry. Fred and George are just fine, and so are the rest of the Weasleys. You'll remember soon enough. Your memory is already starting to come back, right?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally. It was true, but there was still something that felt...off. Like he was looking at the world through a mirror. But surely that sensation would fade as his memories returned—he wasn't sure what he would do if it didn't.

There was a clattering on one of the common room windows. Hermione made an exclamation of surprise and quickly strode over to it and open it. A snowy white owl fluttered inside and settled on her arm. Hermione positively beamed as she brought the owl back over to them.

"Looks like Hedwig finally came to see you. She's your owl," she added.

Although Hermione stretched her arm out towards Harry, the owl merely cocked her head to side, staring at Harry. There was a pregnant silence for a moment before the owl suddenly surged forward with a deafening screech and Harry's vision was filled with beating wings and scratching claws. He dove out of the way while his friends shouted out in surprise. He could hear someone yelling his name, but he was too busy trying to ward off the enraged owl to reply.

After what seemed like forever, the owl was finally shooed away, leaving Harry scratched and panting. It landed on the back of chair on the other side of the common ruffling its feathers and looking annoyed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Harry growled.

"I don't understand why Hedwig would act like that," Hermione said, aghast. There was a long moment of silence following her words.

"Maybe she can sense that Harry's memories are all wonky?" Ron suggested as he shifted uncomfortably.

The young witch hummed under her breath, but didn't reply.

"Well, let's go to dinner, yeah?" Ron continued, being rather obvious in his desire to switch topics. "I'm sure Hedwig will have calmed down by tomorrow."

Dinner, of course, meant being amongst all the other children who whispered and stared at him. Few of them tried to hide their curiosity, and most stared openly. It was altogether an uncomfortable affair and Harry pretended he couldn't hear the things they were saying.

The noise fell away abruptly when Dumbledore stood up at the staff table. He launched into a very grave, and for many of the children, very horrifying speech about a student who had died—_died!_—and how Voldemort had returned. Harry kept his eyes riveted on the man the entire time, drinking in every word. When Dumbledore finished there was a heavy weight in Harry's stomach as he asked himself over and over again why he still couldn't remember anything—and if he even wanted to.

Hermione was also hesitant. "Do you still not remember anything concrete?"

Shrugging, Harry replied, "I remember little things. Mostly about the castle. And occasionally I'll see someone in the hall and recognize them. But that's mainly just knowledge. Actually memories of what I've done in the past... They're like mist, never quite solid."

Ron said something from his other side, but the food stuffed into his mouth obscured the words. Hermione huffed loudly and began to berate him. Harry just smothered a smile. The two of them seemed to be very close. Had Hermione ever scolded him like that? He tried to recall such a memory, but just as he had told Hermione, it didn't come.

"You, on the other hand, haven't eaten anything yet!" Hermione exclaimed. She picked up a goblet and passed it to him. "Have this, at least."

Harry murmured thanks as he accepted the goblet, then cast a quick poison detection charm before taking a sip. It was sweet and sent warmth spreading through his chest.

"What was that?" Hermione asked curiously. Harry glanced up. "That spell you just did."

Harry opened his mouth to tell her, and then stopped suddenly. Why had he cast the charm? He was in a school—there was no reason to expect his drink to be poisoned. But he hadn't thought about it as he cast it. It had been natural to do so—habitual, even.

_He gurgled and clawed at his throat as it burned and twisted. Someone was yelling at him and shoving a flask into his mouth. Strong hands pried his jaw apart and he gulped down the thick, cool liquid as fast as he could— _

"Harry? Are you alright?"

He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded to Hermione in response, but didn't try to crack a smile.

Ron and Hermione left him alone for the rest of the meal, conversing in soft but tense tones. They tried to draw him in every now and then, but gave up when he only nodded at whatever they said.

* * *

The next morning passed by in a flurry of running children and clunking trunks as everyone tried to get down to the platform as quickly as possible. For his part, Harry was dreading the trip. Spending summer with a group of people he didn't know, and who apparently didn't like him very much, did not sounds like his idea of a good time. But ultimately, he didn't have any choice in the matter.

On their way down to the train—after having skipped breakfast, of course—Harry and his two friends were accosted by three Slytherin students. The first of them was a blond boy who looked to be the same age as Harry, while the other two were large, stocky boys. They looked like thugs.

"Malfoy," Ron growled hostilely. "What do you want?"

The blond haired boy smirked arrogantly. "You picked the losing side Potty," he mocked. "I warned you! I told you that you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we first met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!" He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione.

Malfoy's voice set Harry's teeth on edge. There was something about him that Harry sincerely hated, and it wasn't just due to the insults. Without thinking, Harry flicked his wand and muttered a spell. Instantly, the floor beneath his feet began to bubble and melt, as though acid had been poured onto it. Malfoy scrambled back with a rather high pitched squeal, but not before his shoes began to smoke as well.

"Leave, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice soft and dangerous. Malfoy stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. There was a hint of fear in there as well. Hiding his satisfaction, Harry lifted his wand again menacingly, silently threatening the younger boy. Usually he didn't like cursing children, but this was a completely different case.

"You can't threaten me, Potter! The Dark Lord's back and he'll go after _you_ first!" Malfoy barked. But that fear was still there and he was backing up, pulling the other Slytherin boys with him. A moment later they left, disappearing around a corner.

"Blimey, Harry, that was great!" Ron laughed gleefully. "Did you see the look on that ponce's face!"

Hermione wasn't laughing, or even smiling. She was staring at the burned, half melted stone before them. "Harry..." she said slowly, "What was that spell?"

"Liquefaction charm," Harry replied with a shrug.

"But where did you learn it? That's _clearly_ not a part of our curriculum."

"Oh lay off, Mione!" said Ron. "He probably came across while preparing for the Third Task, didn't you Harry?"

"Third Task?" Harry repeated blankly.

His question fortunately turned the conversation into an explanation about the Triwizard Tournament that he'd apparently participated in this year. It lasted all the way down to the crowded entrance hall where they waited for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. But after they had finished and Ron and Hermione moved on to other subjects, Harry stood silently with his stomach tied in knots.

"So I won, did I?" he muttered. But that... That wasn't _right_. Being tricked into the Tournament, winning, being whisked away to _Voldemort_. It couldn't be ri—

_Harry stood in the stands, one voice amongst the deafening cheer as Cedric Diggory lifted the Triwizard Cup high into the air, beaming proudly at the crowd—_

He sucked in a breath sharply. That's right. _Cedric_ had won. He hadn't even participated in the Tournament— But that wasn't what his friends were saying. That wasn't what everyone was saying. That wasn't what the large bag of gold in his trunk was saying. But... His memory of Cedric winning was so clear, so _real_. How could it not be true?

How could Cedric be _dead_?

"'Arry!"

He looked around. A pale haired woman was hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. He recognized her as Fleur Delacour, the French Triwizard participant and his gut tightened again.

"We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," said Fleur as she reached him, holding out her hand. "I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my English."

"It's very good already," Ron said in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled. For his part, Harry just stared.

"I'm...sure you'll find something," he said after a moment. "I'd be happy to help you look, if you like."

Ron and Hermione both stared at him now, dumbstruck. Fleur smiled brightly and gave a charming laugh. "Zat would be lovely, 'Arry!" she said. "I shall owl you over ze summer, when I return to England." She smiled again and turned to go. "Good-bye, 'Arry. It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"

He watched as Fleur hurried back across the lawns to Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the sunlight. There was definitely something familiar about her.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron demanded angrily. Did you just—?"

"Could I have a vord?" a gruff voice suddenly asked. It belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man—Victor Krum. The other Tournament participant.

"Oh..." said Hermione, looking slightly flustered, "...yes...all right." She followed Krum through the crowd and out of sight. Harry wondered if there was something between the two of them.

"You'd better hurry up!" Ron called loudly after her. "The carriages'll be here in a minute!" He spent the next few minutes craning his neck over the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They returned quite soon and Hermione had a faint smile on her face.

"I liked Diggory," Krum abruptly said to Harry. "He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang—with Karkaroff," he added, scowling.

Harry nodded slowly. "He was...a good man. Brave." Or so he thought. He didn't remember what Cedric was like, but it felt like the right thing to say.

And apparently it was, if the sudden smile Krum was wearing was anything to go by. He shook Harry's hand firmly, nodding lowly to him. Harry returned the gesture. Ron, meanwhile, looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, "Can I have your autograph?"

Hermione turned away, smiling at the horse-drawn carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron.

Harry waited until Krum truly had left before turning to Ron and asking, "His autograph? Why?"

Ron looked surprised for a brief moment, as though he'd forgotten about Harry's memory loss. "He's a professional Quidditch player; a seeker, like you. He caught the snitch in World Cup last summer."

_Like me?_ He was a seeker? That felt...oddly right.

* * *

Harry did not like the Dursleys. Actually, that was putting it rather lightly. They were easily the worst people he'd ever met, even accounting for his still most missing memory. He locked himself away in his room and spent as much time away from them as he could. Thankfully, they left him alone.

But there was something bothering him more than the Dursleys. Well, the Dursleys were a part of it, but it wasn't just them. It was everything. It was being at #4 Privet Driver, it was sleeping on his hard mattress. It was Hedwig who had flown off the moment he'd let her out of her cage, and hadn't yet returned. It was all so _wrong_. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that he shouldn't be there, with the Dursleys.

And his memory was finally starting to return. It was only bits and pieces, still far from enough to create a full picture, but what he did remember only increased the feeling of _wrongness_. Something wasn't right.

_A tall dark haired man laughed and took a seat at the table, gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke of the Quidditch match. He turned to the woman and—_

Harry shook his head as though that would clear out the images that kept popping up. No, something definitely wasn't right.

His stomach growled. Grimacing, Harry stood and started to make his way downstairs, planning on making himself a sandwich. He paused in the doorway to the kitchen. The thin, horse-like woman was at the sink, washing dishes. Harry loathed thinking of her as his aunt—

_A bony woman sneered down at him, resentment clear on her face. A red haired woman smiled tightly. "Petunia, I'd like you to meet Harry, my—"_

He blinked and saw that the woman was staring at him. Her nose was turned up slightly, as though she smelled something foul. Harry looked away and walked over to the fridge, pulling out some bread. "Would you like something?" he asked out of sheer politeness.

Petunia seemed surprised, and then narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "No," she said shortly. She turned back to the sink and proceeded to ignore his presence. Harry followed suit and focused solely on his meal.

_A small, round boy peered around the woman's legs, his eyes round with curiosity. Harry cocked his head to the side and stared at him, wondering if—_

He frowned tightly as he cut the finished sandwich in half, using more force than was strictly necessary. Vernon and Dudley were both out at the moment. Without them, the house was blissfully quiet. Harry fancied going out as well, since it was such a nice day, but he was in the middle of re-reading some of his recent school books to make sure that he didn't forget anything.

Harry did not, however, like being left alone with his aunt. He didn't like her and she clearly didn't like him. Even now there was resentment rolling off her in waves.

"Do you plan on just leaving that plate there?" Petunia said sharply as Harry stood up.

Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Harry picked up the plate. "You don't have to be so angry all the time," he muttered.

Petunia's face grew dark with anger. "Don't you talk back to me, young man!" she said shrilly. "You're lucky we agreed to take you in!"

Harry scoffed as he dropped the plate onto the counter. Take him in indeed! It wasn't right. _None of it was right._

He whirled around and left the room before he could further provoke his aunt. He wasn't mad at her so much as the entire situation. It was building inside of him, waiting to explode. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on his bed, calming himself down.

Naturally, it was less than a day later when he found himself snapping at his aunt, exchanging snide remarks with her. But rather than being stress relief, the short exchanges were just building up, making him more and more tense.

"You do your own laundry," Petunia snapped. She glared at the shirt hung over the chair in Harry's room like it was offending her. "I will not have you dirtying up my home!"

"I'm not dirty," Harry retorted. "And have you _seen_ your son's room? That's where that smell is coming from!"

"Don't you dare insult your cousin! It's your, your _freakishness_ that's making everyone in this house uncomfortable!"

_The woman sighed. A man with long, dark hair sat next to her and patted her shoulder comfortingly. "It's your fault," he was saying. "That sister of yours has hated you since the day you got your Hogwarts letter—hated you because you're a witch and she'll always be just a Muggle."_

"You—you're bitter!" Harry growled. Something in the back of his mind told him this wasn't a good idea, that lashing out at his aunt wasn't going to help. He didn't listen. "You've always been bitter, because my mother was a witch while you'll always be just a Muggle!"

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

Petunia's face went stark white. Her eyes seemed to be ready to pop out of her head as she gaped at him, her mouth working soundlessly. Then she stilled suddenly, growing completely cold. There was no burning rage at his words, no roaring fury. Only that cold that screamed louder than she ever could have.

"Get out." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the space between them like steel, cold and sharp. "Get your things and get out of my house."

She turned around and disappeared down the stairs without another word.

Harry was left staring after her for a good minute. He swallowed heavily, knowing she meant. Whatever reason she'd had to agree to take him in years ago was now gone. He couldn't say that it wasn't his fault, couldn't say that he hadn't pushed her too it—and he couldn't say that he didn't want it. This house was slowly making him go crazy. Even now the walls felt as though they were closing in, ready to smother him to death.

Silently, he turned on his heel and walked back into the room. All of his things were still packed away in his trunk, except for a book on the desk and the few clothes he hadn't put away. Even his toothbrush was still inside, only taken out when he used it. He had never settled in here, even though it had been nearly a week. He had never felt comfortable, never felt like he should be there. He didn't know these people, his "relatives". They were not family. They were barely even strangers.

And as he carried his trunk and the owl's empty cage down the stairs and out the door, he didn't look back at #4 Privet Drive.

* * *

Harry was lucky. Very, very lucky.

It was only after catching a ride on the Knight Bus that he'd realized—with dawning horror—that he didn't have a Gringotts key, nor even know where it was. And the only way to get another one was through the Ministry, which would obviously draw far too much attention to him. The children at school thought that he was deranged and possibly dangerous. He didn't want to know what the adults thought.

Which brought him to why he was very, very lucky: he still had a bag of galleons in his trunk, his winnings from the Triwizard Tournament.

It was a lifesaver. It was more than a lifesaver; it was a miracle. Without that money, he would have had to sleep on the streets. He wouldn't have even been able to pay for his ride on the Knight Bus! He would have had nowhere to go, and no way to contact anyone. And he certainly wouldn't have gone back to #4 Privet Drive. No force in the world could make him go back there, not even Merlin himself.

_He stood back to back with another man, both of their glasses reflecting the fire that danced around him. The man was grinning. "Ready to fight your first Death Eaters, Harry?" He chuckled. "I suppose the proper, fatherly thing to do would be to tell you to run, but that's not exactly an option, is it?"_

Harry grimaced. The memories were getting annoying though. As glad as he was that they were starting to return at an increasingly pace, they were still unsettling and often seemed to overlap incorrectly with what he'd learned since waking up in the Hospital Wing what felt like years ago.

Running a hand through his hair with a sigh, Harry stood and peered out the window to the quiet street below. The sunset was fading and it was beginning to grow dark. He was staying at a small wizarding hotel in London. It was far enough from Diagon Alley to technically not be in the Wizarding World, but close enough to walk. He didn't dare stay at the Leaky Cauldron; he would be recognized instantly.

Not being able to do magic was the worst part, Harry thought as he walked away from the window crouched beside his open trunk. He could easily wear a glamour charm if he could just use his wand, but it was impossible to hide from the Trace. He pulled out his invisibility cloak from the bottom of the trunk with a small sound of triumph. Smiling down at it, he ran his fingers across the silky, silvery material.

_"Happy Birthday, Harry." The man grinned broadly at him as Harry stared at the cloak in shock. "Make sure you use it well at school!"_

_A woman huffed. "Oh, honestly J—"_

Harry's throat grew dry and his eyes started to burn slightly. Why was everyone saying his parents had died when he was a baby? Why weren't his _own memories_ saying the same thing?

Taking a deep breath, Harry slid the cloak over his shoulders, fastened it tightly, and then checked a mirror to make sure that no part of him was showing. It was risky to go out like this without also using a silencing charm, but he had little choice, seeing as he didn't have a regular cloak to hide his face with. He supposed he could try to go into Diagon Alley the same way he'd checked into this hotel—by taking off his glasses and covering his scar with his hair—but it wasn't much of a disguise.

He was probably being paranoid. It wasn't as though anything would happen if someone saw and recognized him. But... It wasn't safe. Not anymore. Not with Voldemort back. If a good witch or wizard recognized him, they might just report it to the Daily Prophet, which admittedly he definitely wanted to avoid. But if one of Voldemort's followers recognized him... Well, according to his friends he'd escaped from Voldemort, so there was no way that he could be happy with him.

But he had to wonder about that. Why had Voldemort been after him in the first place? Why was he, a teenager, the target of a dark wizard? He was still in school for Merlin's sake!

_He smiled earnestly as he shook the director's hand. "Thank you for this opportunity, sir. I know it's not often that you accept fresh graduates—"_

Harry palmed his wand, just in case, and silently slipped out of the room. At this time in the evening the streets were mostly vacant. At least empty enough for Harry to move through them without fear of touching anyone. Getting into the Leaky Cauldron was trickier, but to his luck—something he really needed to stop relying on—he was able to follow a wizard inside, and then into the alley.

Smiling faintly, Harry glanced around Diagon Alley, memories shopping trips rising in his mind. He'd stop by the apothecary first; he might not be able to use magic, but he could still brew potions. A polyjuice would take a while to make, but it would be worth it in the long run, allowing him to move around without being noticed. The Dursleys would never tell anyone that he was gone, so he should be able to last the summer, and the years after that, without anyone knowing.

Except that he was supposed to stay with Ron after his birthday. Harry grimaced. Well, he'd deal with that when the time came.

For now, his attention was on the apothecary. And he should pick up a regular cloak too, so that he wouldn't have to use his invisibility cloak again before the polyjuice was done. He could leave money behind for the purchases, even if he "stole" them. And things would work out in the end. He smiled again. He could do this.

_Drying blood plastered his hair to the side of his face. He was panting heavily and holding his broken arm, tight against his body. The Death Eater's menacing mask stared at him from where the dark wizard was sprawled motionless on the ground. "Shit."_

* * *

Harry was bored and restless. He'd already reviewed most of his old school books and was half way through the new ones he'd picked up for the next year. But there was a reason why he'd always left the studying up to Hermione—it was _boring_. Magical or not, if he had to read another sentence about the properties of the number seven in regards to the power of charm casting, he was going to go insane.

If he wasn't already insane, that was.

_He gripped the broom tightly as he swerved beneath a chaser—_

Standing before the window, he leaned his head against the cool glass and screwed his eyes close. The books were a distraction, if a boring one. It was all they'd ever been. Something to think about, other than the world around him that was slowly being peeled away, strip by strip.

_He lifted the quill from the ink and swiftly drew it across the page, writing in tight, neat letters, "Dear Uncle Siri—"_

Madame Pomfrey hadn't said that it would be like this. She hadn't said that the images, the memories, would bombard him in a never-ending stream. She never said that they would nag at him, demanding attention.

It had been what, three weeks since he'd first woken up? Maybe even a month. His memories were supposed to have returned in a matter of _days_. Not a month.

_He stared with wide eyes up at a display of confectionary, and then started pulling on the man's hand. "Can we get something, pleeeeease?" The man chuckled. "Your mother said no sweets, Harry. And don't try to use that look on me!"_

Something was wrong. He'd known it in his bones since the moment he'd awoken, and had dwelt on it throughout that first sleepless night. It had troubled and pulled at him ever since, no matter how much he ignored it or tried to pretend that it would all be okay once his memories returned. But now, as those memories returned, it was becoming increasingly clear that the entire world was..._off._

The worst part was that he didn't know whether it was his memories or the world itself that wrong. And that there was nothing he could do about it.

_The loud roar of a motorcycle filled the front yard. He grinned widely at the other teenage boy at his side, both their eyes glinting with excitement. The man on the bike looked equally amused. "So, who's first?"_

He needed help.

This wasn't something that he could deal with on his own, and he was wise enough to admit it. He knew next to nothing about how memory worked, other than the basic Occulmency lessons he'd been given after leaving school. No, that was wrong. He was still in school. He had just finished his 4th year and was still just a teenager.

Dumbledore was the first person who came to mind, being the headmaster of Hogwarts. But he didn't really know the man and had no way of knowing if he'd just pass Harry off as being crazy or looking for attention like the other students.

_"Bow your head," the man murmured. Harry did so while still staring curiously at the large stone monument. "Dumbledore was a great wizard," the man continued. "It's a pity you never got to meet him, Harry."_

Harry grimaced. Definitely not Dumbledore. He could always tell his friends about it, but... They'd been so uneasy with his memory loss, even though they'd tried to hide it. He didn't want to push them further away with his worries. They were some of the only people he could trust right now.

A family friend perhaps? He considered what little he could remember. Sirius was one of the few people that matched up with his memories; he could remember Ron mentioning him once or twice at Hogwarts. It was worth a try at the very least.

He tried not to wonder why Sirius had left him to stay with the Dursleys, instead of taking him in.

* * *

The exteriors of the buildings that made up Grimmauld Place were just as grimy as Harry remembered. There were several broken windows in sight and paint was peeling from the doors. In contrast #12 was, if not clean, at least untouched. Harry titled his head back and stared up at the building, noticing that there was something rather...dark about it that he remembered Sirius having long since gotten rid of, after the deaths of his parents.

Another discrepancy, seemingly small, that spoke louder than words could.

_He rapped his knuckles on the door and then quickly stepped inside once it had opened. "Sorry to bother you at such a late hour, Uncle," he said, fatigued. "But there's big trouble down at the Ministry. We think there's been a security breach—"_

"Harry?"

Turning sharply at the sound of his name, Harry looked back and found a very familiar wizard standing on the sidewalk a few feet away from him. A very familiar, very _dead_ wizard.

Harry whipped out his wand and slid behind a trashcan for cover before the other man could so much as blink. "Who the hell are you!"

"What are you—?" The guise of Remus Lupin gaped at him.

"Don't!" Harry growled. "You think playing with me will work, Death Eater? Remus died years ago!"

The man looked as though he'd been slapped. He spluttered, at a complete loss for words. But he did not try to draw his wand, Harry noticed. After a moment he regained some of his senses and his bewildered expression smoothed away into wariness. He held his hands up in a placating manner.

"Harry?" he repeated. "Are you alright?"

And again, things weren't adding up. He seemed so _real_.

"Swear," Harry said suddenly as a thought dawned on him. "Swear on your life that you are Remus Lupin." He looked completely taken aback again, and Harry gripped his wand tighter. "Swear!"

"Alright," the man said with feigned calm. "I'll swear, but only if you also swear that you're Harry Potter."

Harry nodded tightly. There were people out on the streets looking at them funny, but neither of them paid them any attention. The man slowly put his hand into his pocket and withdrew his wand, keeping his eyes on Harry the whole time. Harry gritted his teeth, watching carefully for any sudden movements the man might make, and prepared to take him down in an instant, Statute of Secrecy or no. Mocking his loved ones, especially the dead, was something that made his stomach churn.

Once the man had drawn his wand, he said, "I swear on my life and magic that I am Remus John Lupin." The tip of his wand burned brightly, sealing the oath.

A moment of silence passed. When the man—Remus!—didn't keel over, Harry's shoulders slumped. He stared at the man, unable to believe that it was really him. His mind raced, trying to think of a way, any way, that he could have been fooled.

"Remus?" he whispered. "But how! You— I saw you—"

The man carefully approached him and laid his hands on his shoulders. "Let's step inside, Harry," he said. "Then you can tell me what this is about."

Nodding mutely, Harry followed. Once the door had closed behind them, Remus pressed his finger to his lips before silently moving down the corridor, all but tiptoeing past a covered picture frame. Harry glanced at it curiously as he followed suit. Once they were in the parlor, Remus finally relaxed. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on a gaudy gold coat stand.

"And about your oath...?" Remus said cautiously.

Harry opened his mouth to agree again, when suddenly something occurred to him. "The Trace." How could he have forgotten about it? He couldn't risk having the Ministry's attention turned to him, especially since his Aunt had kicked him out.

"Oaths aren't spells, and therefore aren't picked up by the Trace," Remus said with a shake of his head. "Plus the Blacks have a number of wards on this house that might negate the Trace anyway... But it's best not to test that out." There was an odd look in his eyes as he stared at Harry, a sort of wariness that hadn't left since Harry had first pointed his wand at him. "The Ministry can't detect magic here, not even with the Trace."

Nodding mutely, Harry took his wand out again. He'd never studied the properties of wards much, and it was a pity he hadn't, as that bit of knowledge was very, very useful.

"I swear on my life and magic that I am Harry James Potter." The tip the wand glowed momentarily.

The wary look still hadn't left his eyes, though they did soften. "Harry," he said softly. "What happened?"

Snorting, Harry shook his head. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that? You were _dead_."

"When? When do you think I died?"

"During the raid on—" Harry began, only to stop abruptly. _During the raid on Hogwarts in my 6th year_, he finished silently. Only he had just finished his 4th year. Another discrepancy in his memories, only this one was so much more than that. It was real, _tangible_. Remus was alive.

And if he broke down for just minute, lost under the weight of his confusion and the return of a dear family member, Remus said nothing of it later. Harry dared not dwell on the memory for long.

"There's something wrong with me," Harry said when he had calmed. "With my memories."

Remus frowned. Memory problems were never the herald of good things. "When did they start?"

For a brief moment, Harry looked surprised. "You didn't know—? Oh, well of course not. How could you?" he mumbled. And so be began to explain haltingly about the dreamless sleep potion and the troubles he'd been having as his memories returned. Remus' frown grew progressively deeper until at last he was sitting staring down at the floorboards, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped tightly.

"And you say you remember...your parents? Anything tangible?" he asked softly.

Harry considered the question for a moment before shrugging uncomfortably. There was a thick, oppressing silence hanging over the house that disturbed him. "Not everything, but enough to know that it was _them_," he said. "My mom... she loved the scent of vanilla. When I was little she would occasionally take me and my father out to see Muggle movies." His lips quirked upwards into a small smile. "Dad always cried at the sad parts."

Chuckling lightly, Remus said, "I can see him doing that. He was always much more sensitive that he let on, and always covered it up with bravado." He sighed heavily then and rubbed the back of his neck. "Harry, I don't know what to tell you. I've never heard of anything like this happening before. It sounds beyond belief—but then, magic often is."

"And what do you suggest I do?"

"I...don't think there's much you can do, at least not until all of your memories, if that's really what they are, return. Perhaps they'll give you some clue. If not, you should tell Dumbledore. He'll be able to help."

Harry took the advice mutely, not yet sure whether he would actually speak to Dumbledore.

There were footsteps on the stairs above them. Harry tensed as the plodded downward, towards them.

"Remus!" a very familiar voice called as they came into the parlor. "That you? Do you have any news from Dumbledore—?" He stopped short at the foot of the stairs and blinked in surprise. "_Harry_?"

Standing, Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry for intruding, Uncle Sirius," he said.

If anything, that only surprised the man all the more. "Uncle? That's a new one. Don't make me feel so old!" He knitted his brow and approached them in a few quick strides. "Is everything okay, Harry? What are you doing here?" Sirius looked at Remus over Harry's head, but the other man refused to meet his gaze.

"I'm fine, really," Harry reassured him. "Just a bit...out of sorts."

Remus sighed. "You might as well have a seat, Sirius," he said.

* * *

A/N: This is an idea that I've been working on for a while and was planning to write as a full length story. This chapter here, however, is as far as I got before losing interest and moving on to other things, so I'm posting it here for now. If I ever regain interest in it, I'll probably flesh it out finish it up (the finished story would have been about 30-50k words), but that's looking rather unlikely right now.

Regardless, the basic idea is a mix of dimension and time travel, with Harry coming from a world where the prophecy never existed. Because of this, Voldemort never came after him, his parents never died, Sirius was never arrested, and he grew up as a normal wizard—but the war also never ended and instead spiraled out of control. Harry was in his early to mid twenties there, employed by the ministry as hitwizard, and he wound up being the one to kill Voldemort entirely through coincidence.

I would love to finish up this story eventually. But the drive just isn't there right now.

Also, amusingly enough, this chapter alone is longer than the previous 4 combined.

—S.R.


	6. Gemini

Title: Gemini  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 2,461  
Story WC: 17,946  
First Written: June 21, 2011  
Last Edited: June 24, 2011  
Posted: June 24, 2011

Summary: When Harry woke up that morning, he hadn't expected to find his own face staring back at him. He hadn't expected to be regaled with tales of time travel and war. And he certainly hadn't expected to get dragged into a world of ancient magic and intrigue. [No pairings.]

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

_Gemini_

* * *

_"We cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are."_

_–Max De Pree_

"Well, this is awkward."

When Harry James Potter woke up that morning, he hadn't expected to find his own face staring back at him. He slowly pinched his arm, to make sure he wasn't still sleeping. That was clearly the only explanation, since what looked to be his clone was sitting at the end of his bed with a sheepish look on his face, but he felt the pain from the pinch anyway.

"Er, surprise?" the double said, and Harry noticed dazedly that even his voice sounded the same. "Sorry about this. I actually wasn't expecting this to happen; not like this at least."

It was only through pure shock that Harry didn't scream as the realization that he was awake and this wasn't a dream caught up to him. "Who—!"

"Oh, right. I'm you. Well, you from the future." The double glanced down at himself and stretched his fingers a bit. "It looks like I'm eleven like I planned—you are eleven, right?" Harry nodded dumbly. "Oh good, at least I got the time frame correct. Right, so, time-traveler. There's a war in the future and it ended badly and lots of death and blah blah blah, so I decided to travel back to the past to set things right."

"How...?"

"Time travel," the double repeated, waving his hand as though that explained everything. "I'm not going to repeat the specifics, because my head is already spinning from everything the Unspeakables tried to explain about paradoxes and advanced arithmetic formulas and all that bull."

"But you're..."

The double grinned. "Well it wasn't supposed to go _quite_ this way. I was supposed to...fuse with you, or something." He waved his hands around again. "I'm not really sure why. Something about paradoxes..." He shrugged. "Anyway, hello little me! Mini me? I guess that doesn't really work since we look the same. Hmm..."

Harry's mind slowly pulled itself back together. "You're me?"

The double gave him an odd look. "I though we'd already been over that part," he said.

"From the future?"

"Obviously."

Harry frowned. "How do I know you're not some magical creature trying to trick me?" he asked.

"Oh…" The double blinked, looking as though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Oh. Well… How about this: When I—we?—was six, I accidentally knocked over one of the flowerpots Aunt Petunia keeps by the sink. Dudley came in at the same time with his new lacrosse stick, so I blamed it on him. It was probably the only times Dudley was actually blamed for something instead of me." He paused for a moment and scratched his cheek. "Actually, come to think of it, it was only after that that Dudley started to chase me, so it probably wasn't the best idea…"

Harry stared openly. "Oh," he said, unconsciously repeating the double. "You're me?"

Rolling his eyes, the double sighed. "Merlin, I don't remember being this thick when I was a kid," he grumbled. "Look, this might not have been what I was expecting, but I think we can make it work. Perhaps we can pretend to be twins—we can say something about there having been an advanced enchantment over us, making everyone thing we were just one person. Mum was really good with charms, you know. Or maybe I can hide and we'll switch out whenever we need to, so that we can get more things done while everyone thinks we're the same person. Which technically we are, but that's not the point."

"But how could you hide?" Harry asked, crinkling his brow.

"Magic of course," the other Harry said cheerfully. "And I'm quite glad that the Unspeakables took a bit of time to tell me about how the Trace works. Since it's attached to a person's magic, not their physical body, and I'm over seventeen, it's already gone for me, even here."

"Trace?" Harry repeated blankly.

"Ah, it this thingy that tracks the magic of minors. You can't use magic outside of school until you're of age, see. And if you do they get all snippy and send you a warning, even if it's totally not your fault and was really just a batshit insane—but nevertheless endearing—house-elf who was copying your magical signature."

"House-elf?" Harry asked weakly. It had been one of the only unknown terms his mind had been able to latch onto in the whirlwind that was his double's explanation. Regardless of whatever he said about them being the same person, his older self was clearly very different.

"You know, house-elf." The double was gesturing randomly again. It looked as though he was trying to outline something in the air, and failing miserably. "They're these odd looking pillow people with snappy fingers and baseball eyes." Seeing Harry's blank look, he waved him off and said, "Never mind; you'll see them at Hogwarts. Oh right, Hogwarts. What's the date? How far away is the start of term?"

Harry pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them while studying his counterpart. "It's September 1st. I'm supposed to go to King's Cross today to go to school."

The double clapped his hands, all but beaming. "Fantastic! Cutting it a little close, perhaps, but it works out brilliantly all the same. Hmm, I suppose if we're going to work together, we're going to need a way to distinguish each other, rather than just calling each other Harry. How about Harry #1 and Harry #2? I'll be #1, of course." Harry stared blankly at him. "No good? Hmm, I suppose I could always go my middle name. It'll be a bit odd since it's Dad's name, but..."

"Okay?"

The newly named James suddenly grinned mischievously. "Oh, but we really have to practice finishing each other's sentences like the Weasley twins do! The look on people's faces alone would be completely worth it."

A small smile broke out on Harry's face. At the same time Uncle Vernon knocked harshly on the door, bellowing about how he wouldn't be taking him if he was late. The Harrys grimaced in tandem, and then silently got up from the bed. James gathered up the few of their things that hadn't been packed yet—mainly clothes from the day before, since Harry hadn't really settled in to his new room in the month since he'd been moved from the cupboard under the stairs—while Harry got dressed. Harry was almost ready when James suddenly gasped delightedly.

"Hedwig!" James exclaimed while running over the owl. He marveled at the bird and cooed at her while stroking her plumage, and while the owl allowed herself to be pet, she stared at the time traveler in a way that clearly conveyed that she thought there was something mentally wrong with him.

The (technically) older wizard continued to marvel at Hedwig as he finished packing. When they were ready at last, he grinned widely and took their wand. Harry stared in surprised as his counterpart muttered a spell and disappeared before his eyes.

"You've got to teach me how to do that," Harry said, awed.

"All in good time, young grasshopper," came James' disjointed voice. "Now come on! Grab your—er, our—things and go downstairs before Uncle Vernon really does leave without us."

James grabbed the trunk, but hesitated near the door. "How are you going to come without being noticed?" he asked.

"Hmm," James said, considering the question. "I supposed that I could probably sneak into the car, but..." Harry could tell just from his tone of voice that the other Harry was grinning again. "I've always wanted to try ridding on top of a car. And with a quick sticking charm, there won't be any problems!"

Harry stared at the spot where James' voice was coming from. "Okay?" he said slowly. "I suppose that way there's no chance of you being caught..."

"Right, right," Harry said with a laugh, and then Uncle Vernon's yelling reached their ears again and they both jumped and scrambled out the bedroom.

They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dropped their trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station. Harry could tell that his double had made it safely because James was holding onto his shoulder, letting him know where he was.

Uncle Vernon said something that sounded rather nasty as he left, but Harry's head was still spinning too much from everything that had happened to really hear him. Magic was one thing, but time travel? And _he_ was the one who had time traveled on top of it! He remembered James saying something about a war and shuddered. Was he really making the right decision by going to this school?

"Umm, where's the platform?" Harry said suddenly. He fumbled around for the ticket and looked at the number. "Platform nine and three-quarters?"

"This way, this way," James said quietly somewhere near his left ear while gently steering the cart to their right.

Harry took the hint and began to push while the other Harry gave him whispered directions on how to get to the platform. His heart constricted fearfully when he had to run into a brick wall and for a moment he was sure the other Harry had tricked him, but it ended up all right and suddenly he was staring up at a brilliant scarlet steam engine on a platform that was packed with witches and wizards.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" James said quietly and Harry nodded before quickly halting the motion when a couple of people looked curiously at him.

They carefully made their way through the crowd, with James sticking right behind him to avoid being jostled by the crowd. They found an empty compartment near the end of the train and James used a whispered feather-light spell to help Harry get their trunk inside. They settled into the compartment and from the sound of it, James had stretched out across most of the seat across from him while yawning.

"Well this will be interesting!" said James. He said something else in Latin and Harry saw a streak of blue light hit the compartment door, and then the window. A moment later the invisibility charm around James faded away and he founded himself staring at his own face once again. It was rather disconcerting.

"What was that?" Harry asked.

"Locking and wizard repulsion charm for the door. It'll prevent anyone from wanting to open our door, and even if they do it'll be locked. I put a similar repulsion charm on the window, so that we won't be seen. Now we'll finally have privacy to talk for the rest of the day."

Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be alone with himself for the rest of day. Not that he had a choice, but still... "You mentioned a war," he said after a moment.

The other Harry seemed to deflate and for a moment he looked like the eleven year old boy that he was supposed to be. An unidentifiable emotion crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly at it had come. James looked out at the people milling around on the platform as he replied.

"Yes, there was a war. Voldemort wasn't as dead as everyone thought he was, and he found a way to fully come back," he said. "It won't happen for quite a few years, but the Wizarding world was still drastically unprepared. It...it didn't go well. He took us by surprise and the Wizarding had no real way to fight back." He shook his head sadly and then, inexplicably, a small smile pulled at the edge of his lips. A moment later it was smothered into another frown. "We had some interesting times," he explained at Harry's questioning look. "We may have lost in the end, but some battles were won. I'd say 'you'll see', but I'm here to make sure that that you _won't_ see."

"How?" Harry asked. "Even if you are from the future, here you're still just eleven. How can you stop a war?"

James grinned, suddenly brimming with confidence. "I have more than just a few tricks up my sleeve," he said. "But first on my list is to get you started on learning magic; trust me, you're going to need it." He leaned forward, abruptly looking stern. "You have to be serious about learning magic. I wasn't, in the beginning. I was more interesting in playing with my friends and running around having adventures—and it cost me. With magic you can literally do anything you can imagine, but you _have_ to know what you're doing. Can you promise me that you'll put your all into studying magic?"

Shrinking back into his seat, Harry found himself rather intimidated by seeing such a grave look on his own face. It made him look years older, and for the first time since he'd woken up that morning, it hit Harry that his time travelling companion really wasn't his age, but was someone possibly decades older with real experience in fighting with magic. It was a bit scary to think that this was who he would become, but also a rather awe-inspiring.

"Yes," Harry said, suddenly determined not to let him down. "I promise I will."

James sat back in his seat and smiled. "Good," he said. "I'll help you with your classes, to fill the gaps with some tips that helped me learn magic more easily. But we're not going to start off with that quite yet. First we're going to go over some important cultural things that you need to know about the Wizarding world, goblins, centaurs, merpeople, werewolves, and the rest of the world. Most of these will be things that you won't be taught in school; things I had to find out the hard way. And I want you to listen closely, because this going to be very important in the future."

If anyone had walked by the compartment that day and by some miracle been able to resist the repulsions on the door and peek inside, they would have been greeted with the odd sight of two identical boys seated across from each, completely drawn into their conversation. One of the boys was leaning back with one arm over the back of his seat while his other hand twirled a wand, confidently speaking. The other younger looking boy was leaning forward, eagerly drinking up what he was being told with a bright gleam in his eyes. And if they saw this, that person might have thought that these boys didn't look quite so identical after all.

* * *

A/N: This, for once, is not an abandoned idea, but rather one that I'm actively working on right now and wanted to post to get an initial reaction. It's definitely an idea that I'm having a ton of fun writing - the scene I'm working on right now, not too far into the story, involves Harry rappelling down the side of a building in Venice. If/when I'll post it will be when I'm done or mostly done with the story (mainly to avoid having a ton of half finished stories on my account).

-S.R.


	7. Colors of Emotion

Title: Colors of Emotion  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Chapter WC: 3,517  
Story WC: 21,463  
First Written: June 21, 2010  
Last Edited: August 24, 2011  
Posted: August 24, 2011

Summary: The blood wards have been broken, the Dursleys slaughtered, and a boy's mind shattered. The choice of one man changed Harry Potter's life forever. Can the Wizarding World trust their future to a sociopath or will this spell their end?

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

_Colors of Emotion_

* * *

_"And the wild regrets and the bloody sweats. None knew so well as I: That he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one shall die." – Oscar Wilde_

Theodore Nott Sr. was not a fool, and certainly not a coward.

He had attended Hogwarts alongside Lord Voldemort himself, during the era of Grindelwald. He was one of only three people still living to know the Dark Lord for who he truly was, spotted heritage included. But he was no fool. He knew power when he saw it, and Tom Riddle had been as powerful as they come. Nott had been one of the first wizards to join Voldemort's cause, back before they had even left school. He had fought alongside him for decades now, believing with every ounce of his being that one day they'd be able to achieve their dream—their utopia.

Nott was no fool. He could see their world for what it had become. Corrupt and incompetent governments, blinded by greed as they squabbled pitifully over scraps. Wizards and witches hiding in the shadows, cowering beneath the Muggle world as it grew like a disease, but daring not to speak or _think_ of their own fear, of the end that they could feel was coming. They wielded magic! They were beings of power—true _power_!—and they wasted it on cleaning charms and simple tricks. Pitiful. Truly pitiful.

But Tom Riddle, he had been smart. Though new to their world, he had seen when so many could not. He had seen how the wizarding world was rotting from the inside out, festering like an infected wound. He had seen, and he had decided to do something about it. They would return to the glory days, when witches and wizards had walked across the face of the earth unafraid and uncontested.

One day, they would.

Then it had all gone so wrong. Lord Voldemort... He had changed. Changed so much, so quickly. He grew paranoid and moody. And obsessive. So very obsessive.

It was all due to that damned prophecy! The Dark Lord had refused to leave it be. He had been so enraged at the thought of a mere child being able to challenge him. Nott had never seen him like that before, seen him so focused on one thing, ignoring the war around him, ignoring his cause. And then he had gone, and he had gotten himself killed. By a child! A babe, barely over a year old! It was unthinkable, utterly and completely impossible. No one survived the Killing Curse, and _no one _could defeat the Dark Lord! And yet he had. Harry James Potter had.

Theodore Nott Sr. was not a fool, and certainly not a coward.

Never a coward.

* * *

His wand clenched tightly in his fist, Nott stalked forward through the night. His robes swished around him silently, blending into the dark with as much ease as an invisibility cloak. The grass made no sound beneath his feet as he all but ghosted over it, intent on the small Muggle house before him.

He had not said a word to wife when he had left, nor to his four-year-old son. Merlin, four years? Had it really been that long already? Four years since a child had destroyed Lord Voldemort, and their cause along with him. No matter, he would set things right tonight.

A blood ward covered Number 4 Privet Drive. It was powerful, ancient magic, but hardly infallible. A truly talented wardsmith could bring it down, given the right tools and enough time. Nott was such a man, having specialized in wards and runic magic since he was fourteen. But unfortunately, time was an issue and he did _not_ have enough of it to bring this particular ward down. That, however, was not a problem. There were other ways around it—ways that used subtlety rather than brute force.

And the Notts had always been known for their subtlety.

This particular ward focused on the intent of those who tried to pass through it. They would rather forcibly eject anyone who intended to harm those living within. Nott knew exactly how it worked—he'd spent the last four years studying it, duplicating it, and taking it apart again and again until he knew it better than his own family. He knew this ward, and he knew exactly how to get through it without having to bring it down.

There were a number of wards that used a similar intent-seeking magic as these wards. They were usually used to prevent thieves from entering rich manors, though some similar to this ward had been crafted for hospitals. Of course, that was back before simpering fools had outlawed blood magic. Regardless, wardsmiths had created certain spells to get around these wards in the event of an emergency—warding was delicate magic and quite prone to errors. One such spell tricked the wards into believing that the caster had a different intent than they actually did. In this case, that Nott had only benevolent interests in the residents of the pathetic Muggle hovel before him.

The spell works perfectly.

Nott felt little more than a cool sensation brushing by him as he passed through the words. He paused for a moment on the other side to marvel at the feeling of triumph that welled up within him before focusing on the task at hand once again. The Dark Lord may have overestimated the power of a child, but Nott would not. He would make sure there was no chance that the boy would survive. The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Die. It had a nice ring to it.

Muggle locks presented no problems, nor did the Muggles themselves. In no time at all he had them levitated down into the living room, bound and silenced. A simple locating spell gave him the boy's location: the cupboard under the stairs. A brief bout of rage assaulted him at the sight of the young wizard curled up on a mat. This was what had become of their "savior"? _This?_ A wizard, tossed in a corner like an unwanted toy. He scoffed at the thought.

There was a soft popping sound outside. Nott froze, recognizing the activation of the perimeter ward he had set up upon his arrival. He did not have to look outside to know that someone knew he was there and the Aurors had come. He cursed aloud, realizing that there had probably been a secondary ward woven into the blood ward, one that checked for the entrance of anyone magical.

But not all was lost. Nott whirled around and began casting spells on the Muggles, ripping open their intestines, cutting open their jugulars, and using one particular curse that literally made their blood boil. They screamed beneath the silencing spell and writhed in pain as they died. Nott turned his back to them, uncaring, and stared down at the boy.

He could kill him now, so very easily. A simple curse would do it, and not just the Killing Curse. But there was no guarantee that it would work. While the blood wards covered the Muggle house, they were still tied to Harry. If they were what had saved him the first time, then how was Nott to know that they would not do it again? He had planned to take his time and make sure the boy would die, but he could already feel the anti-Apparation wards that had been erected and hear the pounding of footsteps up the front walk.

As always, time had foiled him.

Nevertheless, not all was lost. There was still one spell he could use. It would not kill the boy, but it just might set him on a path to either his own destruction or to the destruction of the wizarding world itself. Lifting his wand, Nott wove it about in a complicated pattern while swiftly muttering a stream of Latin. When he was done, a sickly yellow beam shot out and hit the boy, who immediately began to writhe about as though he was under the Cruciatus.

Nott smiled coldly. It would not kill the boy, but result would end up being far worse. It was a pity he would not be around to see the result.

The door was smashed in and landed several feet away, splintered into several pieces. As Aurors poured inside, Nott raised his wand to heart, and then hesitated. He would not get to watch his son to grow up. That was his one regret. Their cause had always been so important, but then he had found a wife and had a little boy. A little boy who probably would not remember him, and may very well grow up in ridicule as a result of his actions.

All for the Cause.

Steadying his hand, Nott said his final words.

"Avada Kedavra."

* * *

Harry James Potter titled his head to the side curiously as he watched the man and the woman fighting. They whispered angrily as they walked along, voices raising occasionally. They were altogether unmindful to the other pedestrians on the street who were giving them a wide berth. A couple of elderly woman nearby were watching while openly muttering disdainful about how shameful such actions were in public. Harry did not mind, but for the life of him, he just could not understand.

Emotions, that is.

Oh sure, he could reproduce emotion easily enough—a smile here, a scowl there, even a few tears if the situation called for it—but he had never actually _felt_ anything. Not joy, not sadness, not even anger. He was...calm, he thought the word was. Someone had once told him that he was unperturbed, but he was not quite sure what that meant. He had never allowed his lack of emotions to hinder him though. He was good at pretending that he was normal; no one had ever guessed that he might be a shade different from normal.

"Harry!" Artemisia Sylvanus quickly grabbed Harry's wrist and pulled him away from the growing crowd. "You know better than to wander off," she scolded. She gripped his hand tightly as though afraid he would try to leave again.

Harry put on the best ashamed face he could manage. "Sorry," he told his foster mother while looking down at his feet for good measure. "I was just curious."

Artemisia sighed. "I know, I know," she murmured while leading the boy away. "But you must be more careful. Come, Mylor is waiting for us."

The middle-aged woman steered them to the right and into the Leaky Cauldron. A number of people there smiled and waved as they passed through. Harry waved back shyly, half hiding behind Artemisia.

Fools, the lot of them. Praising him for something he had no control over. It was mind-blowingly illogical—which was a key characteristic of the wizarding world. They further showed their foolishness by pitying him over his remaining relatives' deaths. They said the incident had "traumatized" him. Frankly, they had no idea what they were talking about. Harry hardly even remembered the Dursleys and he definitely did not remember the night they died; he had slept through the whole thing.

And then he had been given to his foster parents. He suspected there was more to the story than that—he had heard a lot of stories about custody battles—but he honestly didn't care. The Sylvanus family fulfilled his needs well enough. Mylor Sylvanus was a Defense Mater and an international dueling champion. He brought in enough money each year to support their comfortable lifestyle easily, but on top of that, Artemisia was a renowned Potions Master who had invented three new potions to date. They lived in a reclusive manor in the countryside with a massive library and access to anything Harry could ever want or need. It was perfect.

The only thing that could ruin it was Artemisia's unnecessary attachment to him. However, Mylor was blessedly emotionally distanced and usually managed to keep Artemisia from bothering him too much. With any luck, that distance would only grow with time.

"We'll need to stop by Madam Malkin's first," Artemisia murmured as they bustled along Diagon Alley, "so that you can get your Hogwarts robes. Oh, I can't believe you're finally going off to Hogwarts! Aren't you excited?"

"Yes ma'am." Not.

"You'll make so many friends, I'm sure you will! Just remember to speak up and be polite. Oh, but you won't have any problems with that, I'm sure. Now, you already have all your books, yes?"

Harry repressed a sigh. "Yes, I do." And he had been reading them cover to cover for months, as if she did not already know that. The textbooks were not very good though. There were a number of books in the manor library that went into much clearer detail.

"And you have all your potions ingredients, of course," Artemisia hummed. "We'll just have a few more errands and then we can pick up your wand. Exciting, right?"

Smiling, Harry put a bounce in his step. "Uh-huh!" he agreed. "Can we go now?"

Artemisia laughed and Harry stared, wondering how that was funny. "Not yet, Harry dear. You'll have to wait just a little bit longer."

Just a little bit longer. It was always just a little bit longer. Harry had been asking for his wand for years and yet they had refused each time. They had said he was not allowed to practice magic outside of Hogwarts until he turned 17, but that was hardly the point. It was having a wand that mattered—having it and thereby having the capability to _do_ something if need be.

But these people were always holding him back. Coddling him, as though he still needed protection. Annoyance would probably be the proper emotion to feel, if he could. As it was, he just found himself dully empty, as though he was waiting for something important.

He was always waiting.

* * *

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had always prized himself on being an intelligent man. He had accomplished much in his long life and each day was leaving behind an incredible legacy. He had fought in two wars and saved countless lives—and and had seen dozens more die. But through it all he'd kept calm and calculating, always a step ahead of his opponent, always planning out his next move.

But he had never expected the Dursleys' deaths.

To think that so many years after Voldemort's death Nott would come out of the woodwork and attack, only to kill himself without harming Harry Potter. That was what really got him. Not the time, not the person, but the action. Why would he kill the Dursleys, but not Harry Potter? There hadn't even been a scratch on him, and it seemed he'd had ample time to do _something_. Not that he wasn't grateful for it, but... It puzzled him. He'd had Harry checked over and over for any sign of a spell, but for all appearances the boy was untouched.

Well, except for a little emotional damage, of course. But that was to be expected, considering everything the boy had been through in his short life. Such a tragedy, for things to turn out the way they had. Dumbledore had hoped that Harry would grow up as a normal child, and then be introduced to the wizarding world when he was ready. He certainly hadn't expected the neglect that Harry had apparently experienced. The wizarding world had been in an uproar when they revealed that. The boy savoir, neglected by Muggles? It was almost enough to cover over the shock of the Dursleys' murders. And the struggles for custody of the boy that had ensued... Well, he was just glad that Harry had been too young to see or understand.

At the very least, Harry had ended up with a good family. The Sylvanus family were strong enough physically to protect him and strong enough mentally to not be drawn in by his fame. A perfect match, he had to admit. And Harry seemed to have grown up just fine with them, rather than spoiled as he'd feared. And with his comprehensive knowledge of the wizarding world... Well, the prophecy just might have an even better chance now. Dumbledore was willing to admit when he was wrong, and he certainly realized that the Sylvanus were a better fit than the Dursleys.

These thoughts were left for quieter times, however. For the moment Dumbledore was focused on the Great Hall as it filled up with children returning to the school year. The sight always made him swell with pride; these were the children who would one day inherit their world. The next generation of witches and wizards. And oh what a bright future they had. The misery that had hung about the castle during the war was only a distant memory now.

And there came the first years. He spotted Harry right away. The boy looked so confident, striding forward in his dark robes. He seemed taller than the other children did, even though he wasn't. It was the air that he exuded, as though he was at compete peace with himself. Dumbledore beamed with pride. A perfect match indeed; he'd been raised well.

The sorting started quickly enough and Dumbledore paid polite attention until Harry's name was called. Then he leaned forward in his seat, smile widening and eyes twinkling. The boy would be a Gryffindor, just like his parents. He'd make fantastic friends and go on wonderful adventures. He would be the perfect person to save the wizarding world—kind, gentle, and brave. He just knew it.

Then reality came crashing down.

"Ravenclaw!"

* * *

Harry was not sure if he liked Hogwarts just yet. It was big, to be sure, and the teachers were competent, but there were so many _people_. And they all stared and tried to talk to him, to be _friendly_. Their motives were painfully clear and he could not even ignore them because there were so many! He tried to pick out the ones that would be the most useful—the most powerful ones, the ones with connections—but it was nearly impossible with the waves of people the assaulted him daily. It was almost enough to make him feel overwhelmed.

Him. Feel. _Hah!_

Most of the older students kept their distance, at least. Oh, they still watched, but they didn't clamor about like the younger ones. He found a few good conversationalists amongst this older group, but conflicting schedules frequently got in the way.

And then there were the Houses.

Mercy, what a backward system. He could understand what the Founders had been aiming for—competition between students to get them to work harder and all that—but it backfired nicely. Sure, the system inspired competition, but it also created animosity between students. Such factions usually broke down after school, but in some cases, the result could be disastrous, Voldemort being the shining example. Yet it had not changed in the past thousand years, let along the decade since Voldemort's fall. Fools.

A door swung open mere inches from Harry's face and girl with bright blue hair stumbled out, nearly falling head over heels. She cursed wildly as she regained her footing, grumbling something about moving stairs. Harry stared blankly at her, more for her hair than her actions. Why would someone dye their hair like that?

The girl final noticed Harry watching and straightened with an embarrassed smile. "Wotcher!" she greeted. She was a lot taller than Harry; had to be a 7th year, he thought. "Sorry about that. I didn't hit you, did I?"

Would he be able to claim grievances for saying she had? Harry grimaced and rubbed his head. "I'm fine," he said in what hope was hurt tone. "It wasn't a very hard door." Right, because doors could be _soft_.

Regardless of his blunder, the girl's eyes widened in horror. "Oh shit! I'm so sorry kid; I really didn't mean to." She hovered over him nervously, unsure of what to do. "Uh, tell you what. I'll... I'll teach a spell! As an apology. Sound good?" Before Harry's eyes, her hair changed from blue to yellow and shortened in length. A Metamorphmagus, Harry realized. That was even better than he had hoped.

Harry offered her a tentative smile. "Sure, I guess."

Before he could get another word in, the girl was already rambling about different types of spells and levels. It took her a moment to stop for a breath and when she did, she looked sheepish. "Anyway, I'm Tonks," she told him. "You must be Harry, right? Harry Potter?"

Shyly ducking his head, Harry nodded. "Yes." Just looking at his scar should have been enough for her to know. Social pleasantries had always befuddled Harry with their uselessness. All they did was stop people from getting their feelings hurt, which, for him, was entirely unneeded.

Tonks smiled. "Quiet kid, aren't you? Expected for a Ravenclaw, I guess. But anyway! We can meet up for the spell. It's a third year spell, but you should learn pretty quickly. We can use an empty classroom until you've got it down pat. Sound good?"

Harry replied with a smile. "I'll look forward to it."

* * *

A/N: Yes, Nott is a hypocrite. He's also a wizard, which explains that pretty nicely. In any case, this story would be a take on how a sociopathic character would handle magic and the Wizarding word. Nott's motives for doing what he did feel a little shaky to me, but I'm not going to more thought into it at this time.

**Random Fact 1:** Mylor Sylvanus is technically a canon character. His name appears on an early planning chart for Order of the Phoenix in a list as the fifth of the Defense against the Dark Arts Professors.

**Random Fact 2:** Artemisia Sylvanus is named for Artemisia Lufkin, the first woman to become Minister of Magic.

Also, thanks for the response I got for the last story, _Gemini_! I'm working fullspeed ahead on that story, as well as a Naruto story called _Worth Dying For_. I have 30k+ done for both of them, but don't plan on posting them until they're complete. You can find summaries for both (including a new and improved one for _Gemini_ that better fits the plot) on my profile.

—S.R.


	8. Patientiâ Vinces

Posted: May 9, 2012  
Last Updated: May 9, 2012  
Word Count: 2,151

Summary: My name is Draco Malfoy. I am a pureblood wizard from an ancient family, born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and apparently it's up to me to restore honor to the Malfoy family and reverse all the damage my father has done by using the Malfoy house motto: _Patientiâ vinces - _By patience thou wilt conquer.

* * *

Parallel: Harry Potter

_Patientiâ Vinces_

* * *

My name is Draco Malfoy.

That's right, Malfoy. I am a pureblood wizard, descending from an ancient family. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, as they say—born into wealth and power and everything a young boy could want. My father is one of the most influential men in magical Britain and my mother one of the most beautiful women in high society. Everyone respects and fears my very name, because after all, I am a Malfoy.

Oh, and did I mention that I hate my father with a burning passion?

It's not teenage rebellion, thank you very much. I have hated him for years, since before I even started Hogwarts. I think it may have started when I saw him slap my mother. It was a very un-Malfoy thing to do—not that I care about her either, mind you. She's the most pretentious, stuck up woman I've ever met, and that's really saying something. But my father is worse than her with the way he walks around, preening like a peacock.

Idiots. I can't stand the lot of them.

Is this what the Malfoy name has been reduced to? Squabbling over scraps dropped by the Minister? Gossiping like Muggles? Engaging in acts of violence like common criminals? And in plain view of the public too! The Malfoy name had been tarnished, perhaps irreversibly so. We had once been wizarding nobility, the elite of the elite. And now?

Well I for one will not stand for it any longer. I will retake the Malfoy name and return it to what it had once been. And I'll do it the Malfoy way—by any means necessary.

_Patientiâ vinces_

By patience thou wilt conquer

o-O-o

I hummed under my breath as a witch bustled around me, pinning up the robe I was wearing so that it could be adjusted to the correct length. The humming was only to distract myself from my internal rage, however. I couldn't even believe that my father had dropped me off here to get my robes. Me! A Malfoy! In my ancestors' days they would have had a proper seamstress come to the Malfoy manor for a fitting.

Madam Malkin hustled another young boy into the back and stood him up on a stool for his fitting.

I cast him a sidelong glance, noting his high cheekbones and wondering if had nobility in his blood. He was certainly a pureblood wizard, at the very least.

"Hello," I said at last. "Hogwarts, too?" Not that there was really anywhere else he'd be attending. He'd probably be shopping closer to one of the other schools if he was. Of course, he could always just be getting robes for a social function; the boy didn't look like he was quite eleven yet.

"Yes," the boy replied. Hmm, not much of a talker.

"I'm doing all my school shopping today," I pressed on regardless. "My parents are away in Italy for the weekend so I want to get it all done before they get back and insist to come along with me." The boy gave me an odd look. I resisted the urge to crack a grin at the expression. "I would like to get a broom as well. A racing one, not a Quidditch one. I've always much preferred the thrills racing to such a rule bound game. Oh—my apologies, do you enjoy Quidditch? I meant no insult."

"It's fine," the boy said in a small voice.

Frowning, I glanced over at the boy and was that he was staring down at the floor. He was wearing old, broken glasses as well, I noticed now that I took the time to look. Perhaps he was from a fallen family and didn't have the money to play?

"Have you ever ridden on a broom?"

"No."

"Now _that_ is a crime," I declared. "I shall have to lend you my sometime."

I mentally patted myself on the back as the boy looked up at me with wide, surprised eyes. One of the first rules of nobility was to occasionally help those poorer than yourself so that they become indebted to you. Father had never learned this lesson and it was for that reason that he was despised by almost everyone in the lower echelons of society.

"Thanks...?" the boy said, trailing away in a question.

I flashed him a smile. "Of course. It's what a Malfoy should do. Know what house you'll be in at Hogwarts yet?"

"No..." He had dropped his gaze again, and I frowned at his apparent lack of self confidence. Wizards should always be sure of themselves.

"Well," I continued, "No one really knows until they get there, do they?"

The boy shrugged and my frown deepened. Getting this boy to speak was like pulling teeth from a griffon. I cast around for another subject and found myself coming up dry. So instead I stuck out my hand while offering a short bow. "I am Draco Malfoy, by the way."

The boy hesitantly accepted my hand, looking as though he wasn't sure whether to bow or not. "Harry Potter."

I couldn't stop the widening of my eyes, nor the way my gaze automatically flickered up to his hairline, searching for the scar there. When he—_Harry Potter!_—grimaced, I cursed myself for acting in such an unseemly manner. But honestly, I hadn't been expecting that response. I had always pictured Harry Potter as being a tall, confident boy, striding around as though he owned the wizarding world. Certainly not the scrawny child before me!

"Ah, forgive me," I said carefully. "I hadn't expected to meet you here in Diagon Alley. Please do forgive my rudeness."

Potter blinked, taken aback. "That's, er, fine?"

"No, no, not at all. As a Malfoy I must help to set the standards for the wizarding world, and gaping at you like you're a caged sphinx is certainly _not_ up to standards. Please allow me to make it up to you." Harry stared wide-eyed at me, unable to formulate a response. "I know!" I exclaimed. "I'll buy you a broom! How does that sound? First years technically aren't allowed to have brooms, but so long as you don't use it this year, you should be fine."

And again Harry was gaping at me, looking completely shocked. Honestly, it was as though the boy had never received a gift before!

Although... If I remember correctly, Potter was raised by Muggles. _That_ would explain a whole lot about how he was acting! I wanted to scoff at the very thought of a wizard being raised by Muggles, but instead I smiled confidently at Potter. If that was the case, then I would just have to reverse the damage they'd done to him and turn him into a proper wizard.

As soon as both our robes were done, I hopped off the stool and then turned back to Potter, offering my hand to him once more. "Well then, shall we?"

The boy hesitated for only a second before taking my hand, gratitude in his eyes.

o-O-o

"I don't know why you and Uncle Serverus don't get along," I commented as I took a swig from by goblet of pumpkin juice.

Harry shrugged as he sat down next to me at the Slytherin table. "Blame him, not me," he said shortly. "I've never done anything to him, but he's hated me since the first day."

"It's not hate—" Harry threw me a pointed look. "—just...severe dislike. He always says that you'll be a bad influence on me."

Snorting loudly at the thought, Harry began to pile his plate with food. At the same time he glanced around at the Halloween directions, staring openly at the bats flying over head. He opened his mouth to comment, but whatever he would have said was forgotten when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."

He then sunk to the floor in a dead faint.

There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding form the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

As all of the students swarmed towards the door, whispering fearfully and quite loudly, Harry hesitated. "What now?" I asked with a sigh.

"Hermione... We were going over our Charms essays—that's why I was late. But she was still in the library when I left. She doesn't know about the troll."

I rolled my eyes. "That Muggleborn Ravenclaw?" I scoffed. "Are still studying with her?"

"She's the best student in our year," Harry pointed out. "And would you stop calling her 'that Muggleborn'? She's a witch, no matter her heritage."

"True as that may be, she's not a witch just yet. She's still too stuck to her Muggle ideals. Until she loses them and becomes more acquainted with our culture, she's still just a Muggleborn."

"You know, _technically_ I'm a Muggleborn too."

"Yes, but I've been working on getting rid of that." Harry was still wearing a stubbornly determined look. I sighed, recognizing it as the one he got whenever he had a crazy plan. I quickly searched around for an alternative idea. What would my grandfather have done in this situation? "Look," I said at last, "we can't take on a troll. They're massive brutes and they _smell_. Why don't you just tell a professor where she is so that a _trained_ wizard can go get her?"

Harry's face softened at that, his determination cracking. "But what if they don't get to her in time? I know exactly where she is."

"Is there a problem Malfoy, Potter?" Snape asked, looming above them.

I grinned up at my godfather, glad for his sudden presence. "Professor, I was just going to look for you," I said, smothering a smirk.

Harry scowled.

o-O-o

"What do you mean the Sorcerer's Stone is in Hogwarts?"

Harry laughed, as though the situation was actually _funny_. "Well I've kind of been tracking it down all year," he said, "ever since I heard something between Snape and Quirrell—you remember, I told you about that."

"We?" I questioned.

"Theo, Blaise, Hermione, and I. Yes, Hermione—don't look at me like that. We didn't know it was the Sorcerer's Stone at first though. We just heard something about Flamel from Hagrid and did the research from there. Anyway, eventually Blaise had his mother look into it and _he_ found out that Flamel loaned the Stone to Dumbledore. No idea why though."

I stared at Harry. "He _loaned the Sorcerer's Stone_?"

"Well not to _use_," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "For protection."

"...Flamel has been protecting the Stone for what, 600 years? Why would he need Dumbledore's protection now?" Harry stopped at that, unable to find an answer. I sighed and rubbed my temple. "Right, well, never mind. If it's here now, then the how and why don't matter." At least not to Harry. "Do you know where the Stone is?"

"Third Corridor, probably. The one that Dumbledore warned us about."

"...Why would he bring attention to it if he's trying to protect it?" I asked.

Harry shrugged. "Reverse psychology?"

"Or a trap." I hummed thoughtfully. "Or maybe the Stone isn't here at all and it's just a diversion. But that would mean that someone in specific is after the stone, and that they're in this school—why else put it in a school?"

"Yeah, I would think Gringotts would have been safer..." Harry muttered. He started suddenly. "Hey, that's right! There was that whole break-in at the beginning of the year, remember? Well it happened same day that I met you in Diagon Alley. And that same day Hagrid took a small package out of the bank for Dumbledore."

"The Stone," I said with a small amount of awe. "You were _that_ close to it?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "It's not the Stone itself that matters though. Just keeping it safe."

I quickly offered him a smile. "Oh, of course," I replied. "That's exactly what I meant." Harry could be such a Muggle sometimes. It seemed he still had a fair ways to go within before he was a proper wizard. "So, if Dumbledore is keeping it safe, then what business do you have with it?"

Scratching the back of his head sheepishly, Harry smiled. "Right, back to my original point," he said. "Someone's going to try to steal the stone. Tonight. We tried to warn Headmaster Dumbledore, but Professor McGonagall told us that'd he'd been summoned to London. Very suspicious timing, if you ask me."

Oh Merlin, I could see where this was going—and there was no way it was going to end well.

o-O-o

A/N: Just a few quick scenes, but this is an idea that I've had some interest in and have been working on for a little while. 90% of fanfictions seems to be about "If Harry was like X instead of Y, how would that affect canon."—this story is "If another character was like X instead of Y, how would that affect canon."

Happy reading!

-S.R.


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